Deliver us
by A. X. Zanier
Summary: An old enemy has returned with a new plot that the Agency has to thwart.
1. teaser

_A/N: You can find "Like Thieves in the Night," the short story that directly precedes this one, at the Quicksilver Library.  
_

_ Please note this story is rated FRM, and is not suitable for younger readers._

* * *

Title: Deliver us...  
Author: A. X. Zanier  
Rating: FRT-13 (suitable for teens 14 and older), FRM for the opening sequence due to sex, language and violence.  
Fandom: _The Invisible Man_  
Series: _Pater Noster_ Arc  
Pairing: Bobby/Claire, Darien/Fallon  
Sequel: post-_Temptation_, late-January 2003  
Summary: An old enemy has returned with a new plot that the Agency has to thwart.  
Spoilers: Probably, does it really matter after four years?  
Disclaimer: a) The characters and basic story ideas of _The Invisible Man_ are the property of others including, but not limited to Matt Greenberg, Studios USA, Stu Segall Productions and NBC Universal. Any additional characters or story ideas are mine. I make no money from this intellectual exercise. b) This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any opinions or views expressed herein do not necessarily reflect those of the author and are used for story-telling purposes only.  
Music: _Somebody to Love_ by Queen; _In the Shadows_ by the Rasmus. 

Many thanks to my ever-patient Beta, Suz.

**Deliver us...**

-----

_A duo with the names of Michael Fry and T. Lewis said, "The more things change, the more they remain...insane."_

_Ain't that the truth._

-----

_"Fuck me," he muttered darkly._

_"'Ere and now?" Fallon questioned. "It'd be a challenge, that's for sure." Then she shifted her hips, making it quite clear that she knew exactly what she was doing and causing him to groan in frustration. She chuckled softly, teasingly. "Something come up, fella?"_

_Darien leaned into her, using his weight and height to his advantage. "You are evil," he told her at a low growl, "but I'm dangerous."_

_She squirmed, trying to gain some space to get away from him, but he just pressed all the harder, forcing the air from her lungs and preventing her from taking a full breath. "Fawkes," she gasped, "you're..."_

_He kissed her, hard, forcing his tongue past her lips to ravage the interior of her mouth, the voices, the eerie chatter in the back of his skull egging him on. She tried to bite him, but, quick as snake, he pulled away. "Now, that wasn't very nice," he admonished, one hand coming up to curl under her chin. He shifted his weight off her, but she gained no real freedom by it as he lifted her off the ground with his hand. He leaned his face in close, "Hey, baby, how about giving me a little sugar."_

_She swung a closed fist into his ribs; he hardly felt it, but it pissed him off. All he wanted was to have some fun and she was getting all uppity, and after all that teasing. What did she expect? Him to suddenly be gallant and **not** take what he wanted? To heel and sit and beg, like the well-trained dog so many others in his life expected him to be. He was so not one of **her** pets and it was time she found that out up close and personal like. Her eyes were glazing over, the lack of air taking the fight right outta her. He shifted his hold and she sucked air in with a huge whoop. "We're going to be a good little girl now, aren't we?"_

_She nodded, coughing, tears welling up as she stared at him with lovely fear in those brilliant green eyes._

_"Good." He went for her throat with his teeth, biting hard enough to taste blood and get a hoarse yelp of pain, while tugging her shirt up and fondling her breasts._

_"Fawkes," she shouted; her voice little more than a raw whisper when he pinched her nipple painfully hard. Then, foolishly, she jabbed him in the side with stiffened fingers, going for his kidney and missing... barely._

_Darien's head came up and he curled both hands about her face. "You little bitch," he snarled and twisted her head sharply to the left with a delightfully, satisfying snap. Her body went instantly limp. "Much better," he muttered, as her eyes became flat and lifeless. "Much, much better."_

-----

Darien jerked awake, his heart pounding, sweat soaking the sheets he was twisted up in and an echo of whispered voices in the back of his head making him quake in terror. With his heart in his throat, he shakily raised his right arm and shifted the watchband. Though the light was minimal, he could see that the snake coiled on the inside of his wrist remained the same - each of the 10 segments still a glorious green. Just as it should be. That he'd had an illicit dream about Fallon was nothing unusual, that'd been going on for months now, but the sudden addition of Quicksilver Madness to the fantasy was a new and terrifying twist that freaked him out.

He released the watchband, his thumb running absently over the head and tail of the snake as he glanced about the dark and mostly unfamiliar room. Okay, so the dream itself was based on the reality of earlier, when the job they'd been on hit a bit of snafu in the form of some _other_ thief burglarizing the place and setting off the alarm and forcing he and Fallon to hide out in close quarters for over an hour. One thing had indeed led to another and they'd wiled away the time in one hot and heavy make-out session. But that was it, no voices, no violence, no death, and most assuredly no red-eyed mambo. Though Claire had never said anything specific, Darien was certain she still ran tests to make sure he remained free of the madness. With Arnaud's involvement in the cure, _anything_ could happen. _'Crap.' _Not even getting laid could keep the nightmare that was his life at bay.

Beside him Fallon shifted, her legs maneuvering through the tangled bedclothes to find his. "I must be losing me touch, usually they sleep for more than two hours when I've gotten through with 'em," she mumbled, one hand reaching up to curve about his.

Darien blew out the breath he'd been holding. "Sorry." He pulled her hand down and ran her fingertips across his lips. "Bad dream."

"Ach, then I'm definitely losing me touch if all I can inspire is a nightmare." She kissed his shoulder drowsily.

"Had nothin' to do with you, sugar, just other shit in my life making itself known," he assured her, turning to kiss her on the forehead.

He felt her move the watchband and trace the snake with one delicate fingernail. "What's 'e for, anyway?"

"Why?" he asked, curious about her sudden interest.

"Well, 'tisn't a prison tat, that's for sure, and ye made a point to avoid marking up your pretty skin afore joining the Agency, so I figured ye had a bleedin' good reason to 'ave this wee beastie added as decoration."

Man, was there anything she didn't know about his life? Okay, so there were a few secrets he had been able to keep, and there wasn't a chance in hell he was going to reveal them to her. At least not yet. He didn't trust her _that_ far. Yes, she knew about the Quicksilver, but she still didn't know about the gland and she most certainly had no knowledge about his former part-time occupation as a psychopath. "It's a reminder," he told her, trying to forget the dream so that he could, maybe, fall back to sleep sometime in the near future. "Go back to sleep, I'll be fine."

She sighed softly. "Oh. I'll see ye 'round then." She let go of his hand and rolled away, plainly unhappy, and apparently wanting him out of her bed soonest.

"Uh, Fallon, do you want me to leave or something?" he asked, thinking he'd done something wrong.

She twitched. "Isn't that what ye be plannin' on doing?"

Darien blinked. Where had she gotten that idea? "Ummm, no? I mean if you want me to go, that's fine, I'll crash in one of the other apartments, but I had planned on spending the rest of the night here."

She went completely still. "Ye _want_ to stay?"

He knew he shouldn't, but he laughed out loud at the complete and total astonishment in her voice. "Yes, I _want_ to stay. Can't give morning sex a go if I'm not here in the morning," he pointed out, his voice dropping an octave in anticipation. "I'd have to be a total idiot to leave."

She rolled over to face him. "And again with the surprising me. Most can't get away fast enough once they've 'ad their fun."

He didn't have to ask why; he knew why - those scars that couldn't be seen till her clothes came off and the need to finish what had been started already upon them. Which made those others who had abandoned ship because of them utter fools to his way of thinking. Even if he'd been a superficial bastard, he'd still have stayed till morning and said his goodbyes then, not sneak out like a thief in the middle of the night. She was too damn _good_ to not at least pretend to be gentleman, and put in the extra effort. If she'd been no more than a casual one-night stand pick-up at a bar he still would have stayed the night and probably been willing to buy her breakfast if she was interested. And Fallon definitely would _not_ be a one night stand, if he had any say about it.

He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her close. "Then you gotta stop picking up dumb as post playmates, clearly they have no clue what they're missing."

She shook her head. "Daft. Ye be completely daft." She ran a hand through his hair, causing it to spike upwards again. "But lucky for ye I like the daft ones."

Like. Crap. He wanted to bed her, not wed her. Hell, he didn't want to put her at any more risk than he already had by working for her. Why hadn't he just walked away and jacked off like he'd done a hundred times before? Why, now, had he chosen to fall into her bed even after deciding to wait on making a move until after his debt was paid? Why had he thrown common sense out the window and taken this stupid chance? Well, aside from rampant horniness, that is.

"Fallon..." How the hell was he gonna do this without hurting her? She'd just all but told him the majority of her bed partners bailed on her before the sun came up and now, after assuring her he was different, he was gonna insist on rules if this were to continue beyond tonight's romp. "I don't want you to get the wrong idea. I've wanted this, for a while now, but _just_ this. I'm not looking for a _relationship_. If that makes any sense."

"A lot of sense, actually. In your line of work, anyone close could be used against ye." Her fingers were drawing figure eights on his chest and she didn't seem the least bit put off.

"So, I was thinking that, if we keep doing this, we keep it light. No strings, no attachments, we can walk away whenever we want with no hard feelings." He let that sink in, and waited for the protest.

"No exclusivity?" she asked, her tone amused.

"Nope. If we want to get together for some fun we do," he told her; relieved it had gone so well. "Oh, and what we do off the clock doesn't affect our business deal."

She snorted in amusement, as if keeping business and pleasure separate would be easy as pie. "A'course not. I 'ave plans for ye and your trick."

"Oh really? Like what?" he asked as her hand wandered lower.

"Like seeing 'ow long ye can stay visible under certain specific conditions." Her hand had reached its goal and was quickly achieving the expected response, but her tone of voice implied that she meant far more than just sexual situations.

"Will there be tests?" He cupped her face with his hand, an echo of the dream suddenly imposing itself over reality, and it took an effort not to jerk away as if burned.

"Aye, but I think ye will enjoy most of them."

"Oh, good," Darien groaned, his hips coming up off the mattress as she worked him expertly, which was more than enough to cause the Quicksilver to flow across his skin and her to chuckle. He pulled her close for a kiss, taking her with him into invisibility.


	2. chapter 1

The room was tiny, little more than an oversized closet that was made smaller still by the built-in desk and cabinets along two of the walls. The over-sized state of the art computer screen was mounted into the wall and the desk itself was empty except for the keyboard and trackball. The cabinets beneath were filled with a variety of input devices: disk drives, including ancient 3.5 inch floppy; jump drives, DVD and CD drives, zip drives, super drives and a half dozen other formats, each more obscure than the one before. There were very few forms of media the machine could not read.

The actual computer, a huge block of a beast, was several stories beneath them in the most secure room in the entire building, with its own back-up power and ventilation. If the temperature rose above 80 degrees, the computer would overheat and crash. The system was the one thing Eberts had demanded be maintained to as close as current technology as possible, for without the computer the Agency would be, in this day and age, nothing. Yes, there were the archives, dry, dusty bureaucratic papers that the government as of yet did not know how to run without. But the computer gathered and stored millions of bytes of data every day, handled schedules, accounting, research, and a plethora of other necessities. And, thanks to the Internet, gave them access to a variety of databases; local, national, and international. CODIS and AFIS were used regularly by agents in the course of their investigations.

Today the room was more crowded that usual, with Darien hovering behind Eberts, as the latter looked over the data on the disk the former had brought him.

"So, the computer I recommended is satisfactory?" Eberts asked as he scrolled through the files.

"Yep. Though I still haven't a clue how to work most of the stuff." Darien was just beginning his discovery of the World Wide Web and had been shocked at the amount of porn that was so readily available. He had quickly come to the conclusion that he preferred the good old fashioned version that arrived in his mailbox in a non-descript brown wrapper.

Eberts snorted delicately, almost, but not quite, mocking. "Fully understandable. The offer of lessons still available, if you wish."

Given Darien's utter confusion when clicking on what he'd thought was a link only to have something called Adobe Reader open, he'd been seriously considering accepting the offer. No time like the present. "I'll take 'em. Next weekend? Barring the end of the world, of course."

"Of course." Eberts chuckled. "I believe I can arrange a few hours of free time on Sunday."

"Perfect." Darien waved vaguely at the computer screen. "Is it of any use?"

"Yes, actually." Eberts' fingers flew over the keyboard, opening other files. "Some of this we already have, but nowhere near as detailed." He highlighted a section of a document from Darien's disk. "Like this on the Faraganni brothers. We were aware that they had expanded their territory, but were not certain how far. In fact, we were unaware that they had started selling black market technology along with weapons." The rapacious glee was evident in the man's voice. "May I make copies of this?"

Darien shrugged. "Sure." The information wasn't of much use by itself and was little more than stray tidbits sprinkled in among the data on Arnaud. What Eberts was drooling over was extraordinarily and heavily edited and lacking all the juicy and important parts. Like the fact that the Faraganni's had sold Arnaud some of that very illegal tech, probably for some nefarious plan or other.

Eberts swiveled about in his seat to look up at Darien. "I have to ask: how did you come by this intelligence? It is not something you'd be able to gather via your... usual contacts."

Meaning thieves, and fences, and such. "Does it really matter?" Darien asked. "The info's useful, right?"

"Very. The quality suggests it was procured by a specialist. Say, perhaps, someone at _the fourth monkey_?" Eberts tried to remain nonchalant, as if it were no more than honest curiosity on his part, but Darien recognized a fishing expedition when he saw one. And in this place, all the expeditions were organized by the Official.

"Do I have moron stenciled on my forehead? I reveal my sources and suddenly _poof_ they're not sources any more."

"Darien, that's not..."

Whatever Eberts had been about to say was interrupted by the bellow of the 'Fish, "Eberts."

Eberts hopped up and swung open the door. "Here, sir."

The Official slowed and swung ponderously about. "Find Hobbes and call his lay-about partner..."

Darien stepped into view.

"Never mind. Fawkes, find Hobbes and be in my office in five minutes."

"What about?" Darien asked, not having a clue where Bobby might be hiding this morning, though the Keeper's bed was always a fair possibility.

The Official huffed indignantly. "You'll find out when you get there." He picked up forward movement and walked down the corridor, pausing as he turned the corner. "I'm certain it will be of interest to you. Eberts."

"Coming, sir." Eberts handed Darien back his disk and all but shoved him from the room. He took just enough time to lock the door before scuttling after his imperious master.

Darien pocketed the disk, curious what the bossman thought might be of interest to him. It was probably nothing more than some Fish and Game schlep work. Saving the endangered abalone from ravening hordes of sea otters so they could, instead, be eaten by ravening hordes of humans.

Darien sighed. You just had to love the hypocrisy.

He pulled out his cell phone and dialed Bobby's number, deciding a quick call would be easier than a game of hide and seek.

-----

The lines didn't match up. For the first time in many months, the series of peaks and valleys on the graph were different. It was a miniscule difference, but several key points, including one that had been nonexistent for nearly a year, were off. The electrolytes being low was probably due to Darien imbibing in far too much alcohol the day prior to the blood being drawn. A mild cold or minor infection could account for the minimally elevated white count, but the last... Though she found it highly unlikely, it was possible that Darien had been partaking of something stronger than beer or whiskey. She seriously doubted it given his abhorrence of 'recreational' drug use, but she had to consider it. He could have been unaware he was taking them, or had been affected passively. Just being in a room where someone else was smoking marijuana, for example, would allow one to absorb enough THC to register on a standard drug test. Of course, he could also be being adversely influenced by whomever he was spending time with outside of work.

Though he denied it, vehemently, she was certain that Darien had found a lady friend and was discovering the joy of falling in love, or at least into bed. All the little signs were there - improved mood, a spring in his step, bypassing certain of her questions adroitly. She would spy on him if she dared, but was concerned she'd cause him to become reluctant about seeing the lady again, and return to his solitary ways. Plus, she'd been outrageously busy on a number of projects - such as an improved Beta-Chatazine - to pester him about it. She fully intended to ask Bobby, who was certain to know, the next time she saw him. Over the holidays, they had made time to be together, but spent little of it talking. Sleeping had become a favorite and necessary past-time after a long series of 12-plus hour days. Too bad those who wished to do evil didn't take time off for Christmas.

Claire looked over the numbers again without any real concern. She'd rerun the test just to be certain it wasn't a system error or a contaminated sample, which occasionally occurred. Only if the results came back the same a second time would she begin to worry, then beard Darien in her lair for some more blood and tough questions.

The Keep door slid open, admitting Booby who was shaking his cell phone. "Damn it."

"Good morning to you too," Claire greeted sweetly even though she'd left his condo little more than an hour ago. She'd needed to stop at home and take care of Pavlov before heading into work. Her pet had greeted her most enthusiastically before demanding a brisk walk and breakfast served on the terrace.

"What? Sorry. It's like a black hole for cell reception down here." He tucked the phone away with a look of disgust on his face. "I'll just have to call him back later." He strode over to her, placing his hands on her shoulders. Ever since the Official had revealed that he knew about their relationship, Bobby had been more expressive at work. During downtime, at least. When the work was serious so was his focus, which Claire understood. This was a dangerous business and allowing one's mind to wander when attention was needed would only succeed in causing injury or death. She knew he loved her and that was what was important.

She rotated her chair about to meet his gaze. He had this slight smile upon his lips and a look of quite happiness in his eyes that made her heart melt. "I have a question for you."

"If it's the one I'm hoping, I can guarantee a 'yes' for an answer." The grin became a knowing one and very nearly made her blush.

"It's about Darien," she clarified.

"Oh." He walked over to the other chair and sat down. "What did he do now?"

She chuckled at his dry tone. Clearly, Darien had been getting into mischief again. Or so she hoped. "Actually, I was hoping you could tell me."

"I was otherwise occupied last night, Keep, and Fawkes was not at home when I dropped by this a.m." There was decidedly sour look on his features at that last bit of information, making it obvious that whatever Darien had been doing, Bobby did not approve.

"So he wasn't home all night?" she questioned.

Bobby shrugged. "Why else wouldn't he be in bed at 0700?"

"I can think of a dozen reasons," Claire stated, "none of which suggest Darien was out doing something nefarious. _I_ wasn't home last night," she gave him a wry smile. "Perhaps I was out delivering the QS-9300 Project data to my Russian contact."

Bobby snorted. "Keep, you were in my bed. With me."

"Beside the point." Claire waved off the reality as if it were nothing, since, in this case, it was. "You shouldn't assume he's out causing trouble. He's grown up quite an astonishing amount since he came here."

That fact sobered Booby; she could see it in his eyes. "You're right, but he's distant, kinda. Secretive."

Claire brightened at that bit of data. "Who is she?"

Bobby stared at her blankly. "Who's who?"

"The young lady he's seeing, who else?" Claire explained with a grin. "He's been much happier this last week, whistling when he doesn't realize it, smiling and generally quite pleasant to be around. You must have noticed?" There was no way he could have missed it given they spent at least eight hours a day in each other's presence.

The frown returned, deeper than ever, those distinctive lines forming across his brow. "Shit," he grumbled.

"So he hasn't told you?" Claire felt oddly disappointed. "You two aren't having problems again, are you?"

That got a vehement shake of his head. "No. Everything's copacetic. I just... we haven't been talking much about him, y'know? He made it clear that what he does off the clock is his business and none of mine."

"Oh." Claire hadn't realized that Darien had taken things quite that far. Considering he had lived under a virtual microscope for the first two years of his... employment with the Agency, it wasn't too surprising that, now that he had some control over his life, he also requested some measure of privacy. "You should spend more time with him. Go to the movies, or that water park you like."

Bobby chuckled. "Keep, it's January. I'd freeze parts you like to play with."

Claire felt herself blushing but refused to allow the change in topic. "I will still be here." Her voice was soft yet serious. She knew Bobby could be obsessive and over-protective, but so far, the manifestations had been minor. He seemed to save that facet of his personality for Darien. But, every now and then, Bobby needed some reassurance that she had no intention of leaving him. That, unlike his ex-wife, she could handle his mood swings, paranoid delusions and obsessive needs. Though, in point of fact, many of his symptoms had greatly improved and not just due to proper drug maintenance. Being able to truly trust those about him had made a considerable difference. His lithium dosage had been reduced to the lowest possible and another medication had been eliminated completely.

"Keep, I..." Bobby began, but stopped when she shook her head.

"You love him as much as you do me. Maybe more. Avoiding him will only make both of you unhappy." Claire crossed her arms over her chest and planted a stubborn look on her face just to be certain she understood she wasn't going to back down on this point. She fully intended to win this one.

"Look who's talking. Do you do anything besides poke him with needles?" It was a valiant attempt by Bobby to turn the situation about, but Claire parried easily.

"He took me to lunch just yesterday, followed by a quiet stroll on the beach. Why?" She tried to avoid the smug smile, but some of it must have crept out as Bobby snorted.

"You two-timing me?"

If Claire hadn't known Bobby so well, she might have been worried he was serious, but she did so she continued down the same path. "Well, I have seen him with his shirt off more times than you." True, but it wouldn't be long before the numbers would shift in favor of Bobby.

"And he did get to have you first," Bobby pointed out, doing his best to look hurt.

"Bobby," Claire blurted. "There were mitigating circumstances."

"Claire, the two of you didn't go apeshit and _suddenly_ decide to have sex. There was interest before that." He actually pouted at her. "I ain't so stupid I can't figure _that_ out."

Claire was forced to concede that point. "You are correct: I do _care_ about Darien, but under normal circumstances..."

"It woulda never happened," Bobby finished in a snide tone. "You so sure 'bout that?"

Claire found herself wanting to gape at him, wanting to refute his words, argue that she would never, ever, _ever_ have crossed that doctor/patient line like that had she not been under the influence of Beta-Chatazine and Darien Quicksilvermad.

_'Liar,'_ a little voice in her head shouted and presented her with a flashback of her kissing Darien when Kevin was in control of his body. She had wanted him then. Wanted _both_ men. Her emotions ragged and jumbled as she had stood before a man she _had_ loved wearing the body of a man she had sworn to protect and that she had come to care for very much. She had walked away from that encounter in utter confusion, not certain which of the two men she had truly been kissing. To this day, she still wondered if she had taken advantage of the situation, and her Kept, to fulfill a longing she was having more and more difficulty denying.

It could be concluded that the later events proved which of the two men she had wanted, however, she still remained uncertain. The dry facts had little impact upon the emotions.

"Bobby, I..."

The lab door slid open, cutting off Claire's words; she gave Bobby a pleading look, hoping he'd forgive her for not answering.

Darien stepped in. "Claire, have you seen... Oh, there you are," he said to Bobby. "Don't you ever answer your phone?"

"And waste minutes? You're kidding, right?" Bobby got to his feet. "What's up?"

"The 'Fish wants us in his office," Darien glanced at his watch, "ten minutes ago."

"Then we better get to it." Bobby headed for the door, pausing only to say, "See you later," to Claire.

Then the door slid shut, leaving Claire once again alone with her anomalous readings.


	3. chapter 2

Darien swung the office door open while bickering amicably with Bobby over their New Year's resolutions. To be more specific; whether or not there was any real value in making them, as the likelihood they would be kept was very slim indeed given their rather hectic lives. Darien pointed out that if the resolutions were easy, like never smoking for an avowed non-smoker, they'd be fulfilled more often. To which Bobby argued that would make the resolutions pointless, because they were supposed to challenge a person to change, preferably for the better.

Since Bobby's intent would have been obvious to a blind man, Darien had simply shot back with, "so I should resolve to start smoking, then?" which both frustrated and amused the smaller man. Darien had come to the conclusion that telling Bobby that' he'd resolved to get Arnaud in the most permanent way possible would have gone over as well as a bomb in a Russian school.

It was looking like that resolution might well be one he'd achieve, thanks to the information Fallon had paid him with, plus some legwork he'd done on his own time. He might be a total dork when it came to computers, but even he could figure out the search function for a database. So, it was with thoughts of attaining a lofty personal goal that he walked into the room to be greeted by the one person he knew to have succeeded in the near-impossible.

"Alex, how's James doing?"

She gave him a beautiful smile, motherhood was treating her well and had mellowed her more than a bit. Did it make her any less of an kick-ass agent? Hell no. If anything, she was better; less abrasive and easier to work with. "He's just fine. At daycare. Probably trying to eat the crayons again."

Darien made a face. "Multi-colored poop is scary." That incident had convinced him that diaper-duty was something he was not cut out for.

"Won't be a concern for much longer. It looks like he'll be potty-trained in record time," Alex informed them, both pride and concern coloring her words.

Bobby shrugged. "So, he's smart just like his mom."

That helped, you could read the thanks in her eyes and she dimpled at him. "Of course. He'll make a great agent one day."

"That he will," the Official agreed, and all eyes turned to him. "Sit. We have work to do." As the boys did he continued, "We have a problem."

"When don't we," Hobbes snarked, leaning back in his chair looking relaxed and unconcerned.

The Official managed a dry chuckle. "True. Very true. It appears a... friend of ours has gone missing."

That got Darien's attention. Was it Kate? Could Jessica have fallen prey to some sexual deviant? Or maybe Adam, stolen from the desert facility that was his current home?

"Eberts," the Official barked.

Albert snapped to attention. "Huiclov de Fehrn has vanished from prison."

Darien and bobby exchanged a glance and together said, "Arnaud."

Eberts nodded. "So we think, but he was never seen..."

Darien snorted. "We know why that is. He's playing with Quicksilver glands again." He wanted to say more, wanted to tell them that he'd known about this, knew that Arnie was gonna try to break his bro out of prison. Trouble was he hadn't believed the info, knowing, as he did, that Huiclov felt far safer in an eight by eight cell than playing terrorist with his psychotic younger brother. Darien shifted in his seat, irritated that he'd let the opportunity to catch the bastard slip by. Next time... next time he'd trust the intel, especially since he'd just had it proven to him once again that Fallon and her people knew what the hell they were doing.

"Is there any chance this could be Chrysalis?" Alex raised a hand to forestall the obvious retorts. "It wouldn't be too difficult to figure out Huiclov is being watched by the Agency and why. He could be nothing more than convenient bait to draw Fawkes out into the open." She cocked her head. "I'm not the only one to have been taken off their Christmas card list." She turned to Darien. "Am I right?"

She was, but knowing what he did he was still forced to disagree. "Yeah. But I don't think this is them. They've been avoiding us since you gave Stark a good ol' smackdown."

Alex grinned at Darien's phrasing. "All right, but I suggest we don't limit ourselves to the one angle, as a precaution."

"Of course, Ms. Monroe," Eberts said, "but statistically, Monsieur De Fehrn is the most likely culprit."

"We know where he's at?" Hobbes asked, getting things back on track.

The Official shook his head. "The last confirmed sighting of him was in Geneva, six months ago."

"Which means he could be anywhere," Hobbes groused.

"Or anyone," Darien pointed out, and watch as everyone frowned.

"Shit, Fawkes is right. Ain't no way he's forgotten how to make those masks of his." Hobbes looked about as unhappy as a little boy just told his puppy had died, complete with all the gory descriptive details. Justifiably. How were they supposed to find a changeling? "How're we supposed to track his movements?"

"Well, it's not like he's suddenly gone all altruistic. He has a certain... style, shall we say. Maybe we can track his movements that way," Alex suggested.

"Follow the results instead of the man," Eberts mused aloud. "I can try. Search for activities that fit his pattern."

"You do that. In the meantime, I want you three to go to the prison and find out exactly what happened." The Official got to his feet. "Warden Richards is waiting for your arrival."

Bobby hopped to his feet. "On it, Chief."

Darien wasn't so sanguine about their little field trip. The Warden might not be quite so thrilled to see him, since he'd been the one to break Huiclov out once before. Darien hadn't known who he was at the time, thinking Huiclov was his brother "Johnny," but still... "Uh, it might be better if I sit this one out."

Alex smacked him on the shoulder. "Don't worry, Fawkes, I'm sure Richards has bigger concerns than you about now."

"Yeah, losing a prisoner, not once, but twice don't look good on his record," Bobby consoled. "'Sides there was extenuatin' circumstances."

Darien snorted and flowed upright. "'Extenuatin'. That's an understatement if ever I heard one."

"Move it," the Official barked. "Find Arnaud before he causes more trouble."

Darien tipped an invisible hat. "You got it, pardner."

-----

The three of them rode in Golda to Almas Perdidas, a medium-security prison that had been built on the site of an infamous Mexican prison of the same name that was shut down in the late 1800s due to the excessively high mortality rate of the inmates. Alex sat on the jump seat between the two men as she usually did when forced to ride in the van. The conversation was, surprisingly, all business instead of Alex's adventures in motherhood. Though in truth, Bobby would be just as likely to bring up the topic of James as Darien. The kid could be quite adorable when he wanted to be, but you could see the glint of potential hellion in those baby blue eyes. Alex was going to be in for a wild ride in a few years.

The prison was easily visible for miles, looking like it had dropped right out of the sky and onto the barren desert. There was no cover as far as the eye could see, just the mountains in the distance to the east and the city of San Diego to the northwest. There was nothing but sand and scrub and the occasional vulture circling overhead. Even now, in January, the three story building was swallowed up by heat haze, the walls shimmering and twisting into bizarre shapes.

They were, with the exception of the odd dead animal, the only ones on the road, a stretch of two-lane blacktop that ended at the prison. It was the only way in or out that didn't require wings or a four-wheel drive vehicle. Escapees, and there had been a few over the years, rarely made it far before the desert conditions took their toll. One, according to the story, was found a couple years after he'd broken out, lying in the lee of a taller than average rock, mummified. It was believed that he'd lain down to rest and never woken up.

That tale circulating among the inmate population was effective in discouraging all but the most determined.

And the desert was only one of a dozen hurdles to get past in an escape attempt. No one... _no one_ had just walked out. Yet, by all accounts, that's exactly what Huiclov had done.

"So, Fawkes, a homecoming of a sort isn't this?"

Bobby tried to cover a snort of laughter with a cough and Darien leaned forward to glare around Alex at him. Good thing he knew her so well, or he'd think her question was more than apropos ribbing.

"Can't say I've had the pleasure. Visited here a couple of times, but that was it." Darien settled back into the seat and watched the yellow lines going whipping by. "Last time I was inside was the Javier case."

"Oh yes, I remember. You broke out then, too." You could hear the ear-to-ear grin Alex was wearing.

"All in good cause," Bobby chimed in with, finally getting around to backing up his partner.

"I know. But it does prove that Quicksilver could have been involved with this escape as well," she pointed out. "It definitely gives one a bit of an advantage."

"'A bit'?" Hobbes repeated, the tone as dry as the dust blowing outside.

Darien, however, smiled. "Just the way I like it." Even with the Quicksilver it hadn't been easy to break out with Dante. So many things had to fall into place at just the right moment for that escape to go right.

"Trouble is, it gives the bad guys the same advantage." Bobby pulled into a parking spot and put Golda into park. They climbed out and headed to the concrete block and LEXAN guard shack that was the only way in or out. Darien remembered it well from his last visit here, hustling Huiclov out with "Kevin" bitching and moaning the entire time. Yet another occasion Arnaud had slipped through Darien's fingers.

He could still recall the sudden rushing return of his memory, remember closing his hands about Arnaud's scrawny little neck, and then the pain. Brilliant and mind-searing. the toxin in his system finally taking a firm hold and sending him to the ground to twist and writhe as seizures ripped through his body.

The sting of the needle had been insignificant in comparison even as it sent him into blessed unconsciousness.

Darien shook his head, tossing the memory off the way a dog shakes water off its fur. They shattered and landed with a soft patter in far-flung corners of his mind to hopefully evaporate and never again be recalled.

Oh, if only.

He pulled out his badge when prompted and trailed after Alex as they passed through the double gates, their escort, the warden's assistant, waiting for them on the inside.

The walk was an uncomfortable one; Darien failing to join in the conversation with anything more than vague sounds that seemed to be accepted as appropriate. The place was every prison movie or TV show cliché come to life. The work crews, the obvious gangs, the cat-calls (most aimed at Alex, but some not), the stench of deodorizer that failed to cover deeper, darker smells that had become imbedded in the very walls over time.

His last time in prison had been kind of fun, being undercover and all, but the fears had still been there. Especially when Luthor and Russell had discovered he was back inside. Darien had been able to handle those clowns, though who knew what could have happened had he been cornered in the shower that day. He never, ever, _ever_, wanted to be incarcerated again. Not even for work. Bobby could go inside and play bad-ass if he wanted, Darien would decline and such invitation no matter how forcefully demanded. That part of his life was quite over and he never intended to look back.

They were ushered into a nondescript office, complete with chairs for all and a TV/VCR combo on a rolling cart. There was a stack of VHS tapes sitting atop a much-abused desk and a sign on the wall that proclaimed 'Big Brother is watching you' with an arrow pointing at the caged video camera mounted in the corner of the room. The red light was on, confirming that it was recording their every word and deed.

Their escort, Mr. Tripp, waved for them to sit then walked over to the AV equipment. "Warden Richards is in a meeting, but will be here as soon as he can. Until then feel free to view the security tapes." He slid the first of them into the machine and handed Alex the remote. "All have been cued to one hour prior to the time we believe Mr. De Fehrn escaped."

"Where'd you lose him?" Bobby asked as the TV blinked on.

"Our last confirmed sighting was in the exercise yard. He missed roll call directly after," Tripp explained matter-of-factly.

"We'll need a list of all personnel on duty at that time." Alex paused the video. "Especially those who had contact directly with Mr. De Fehrn."

"Of course. They will be available to be interviewed if you wish." Tripp was pushing the cooperation button damn hard. Losing Huiclov wasn't _that_ big of a deal when it came right down to it, the guy was a total marshmallow in the inside, but missing Arnaud walking in and out of the prison... that was an embarrassment of major proportions.

"We'll also need a list of Huiclov's visitors for the last six months," Darien said, knowing how Arnaud had used a middleman in the past.

Tripp nodded. "Sure, but it's a short list. Mainly just his new lawyer, Murphy Pomerance."

Bobby jumped on that. "New lawyer? Any chance he was here the day Huiclov went AWOL?"

Tripp blinked and paled slightly. "I'll have to check, but I believe so. That morning, in fact."

Bobby raised an eyebrow. "And the chance that's a coincidence is...?"

"Nonexistent," Alex asserted. "Mr. Tripp, please get us those files and let Warden Richards know we'll speak to him whenever he's ready."

Tripp gave a sharp nod and fled the room, clearly shaken by the possibility that they'd let Huiclov's accomplice walk right in the door.

-----

It didn't take long thanks to the eagle-eyes of Fawkes to confirm that _someone_ invisible had assisted with Huiclov's escape. Not that they had something so obvious as Huiclov turning silver and vanishing form sight, but they did have doors magically opening and closing on their own, guards becoming suddenly distracted and lured away from their posts and buttons on consoles depressing by themselves were dead giveaways.

Tripp came back with the files and sign-in book for the day in question, which confirmed that Huiclov's "lawyer" had visited him just an hour prior to his disappearance. Thing was, while the sheet showed he had signed out the signature was different. It was close, but both Monroe and Fawkes agreed that it was probably a forgery.

From Mr. Tripp they requested the video of the visitor's room, which had clearly been prepared for since he was back with the tape in mere minutes. This time, however, he remained in the room to watch with them.

The lawyer, Pomerance, looked nothing like Arnaud, but that meant nothing given he'd pulled off being Eberts damn near perfectly. It was some of the mannerisms, plus Huiclov's responses, that signaled something was off.

Mr. Tripp picked up on their reactions and left to bring Officer Coletti in for them to question. Not offer, just bring him, which was a sure sign Tripp suspected collusion between the "lawyer" and the prison guard.

It took less than 15 minutes for the tag-team of Hobbes and Monroe to break the man, but by then the 250 pound mountain of muscle had been on the verge of tears, what with Bobby and Alex playing their version of bad cop/worse cop. Darien tossed in the occasional remark that did little more than make Coletti sweat even harder.

In the end, he admitted to doing nothing more than accepting $2000 in exchange for adding Pomerance's name to the sign out sheet, should he forget to do so. It wasn't too surprising the guard could be bought, Hobbes was well aware that a couple hundred in the right pocket could get a private and unmonitored meeting with an inmate. At one time, it was how Arnaud arranged his visits with his brother. Posing as a lawyer would make it even easier.

Warden Richards entered the room as Mr. Tripp led Coletti away, ostensibly under arrest. The man had bought himself a shitload of trouble with that two grand. Money that probably wouldn't be nearly enough to get him bail, come his arraignment. And if the lowlifes he got to share a holding cell with were to get wind of his soon-to-be former profession... the man wouldn't stand a chance.

Hobbes pushed away from the desk he'd been leaning against and frowned. Richards looked way too calm considering what one of his men had just admitted to.

"So it was his lawyer." There wasn't even a hint of a question in Richards' voice.

Fawkes snorted. "Right. His 'lawyer'," he snarked, complete with air quotes.

Richards turned to face Fawkes and smiled. He looked amazingly like viper trying to mesmerize its prey. "Ah, Mr. Fawkes, always a comedian. I've heard all about you from Warden Kennedy. You remember him, don't you? Your stay in Soledad, wasn't it?"

Hobbes was impressed when, instead of blanching or flinching, Darien thoughtfully tapped his chin. "Kennedy... Kennedy... oh, I remember now. Dear old Walter, give him my best, would you." He got to his feet and looked _down_ at Richards. "And if you get a chance, ask him how he liked the humidor." He turned to Monroe. "The things you learn while inside... It's just amazing." The snark just oozed off the words and the smile plastered on his face was patently fake, but it worked. Richards effort to 'put Darien in his place' was easily deflected and his own blow struck home.

Richards grit his teeth and leveled a steely glare at the ex-con, but before he could formulate a response Alex smoothly stepped between the two men.

"Warden Richards, _Agent_ Fawkes' past indiscretions are indeed a matter of public record, and part of why he is on this particular case."

The tactic was at least partially effective, as it drew Richards' attention away from Fawkes and to the buxom Monroe. Damn, the woman could sweet talk a rabid coyote. Of course, that would be right before she shot it.

"It takes a con to find a con?" Richards asked in disbelief.

"Something like that," Hobbes said. "We're gonna need copies of these tapes and files, and any records, video, or whatever of the vehicle Pomerance drove. You do have surveillance of the parking lot, don't you?"

Richards smiled, though it looked painful. "Of course. I'll have it ready for you within an hour."

"Good enough. We'll wait right here." Hobbes made it plain it was a dismissal, and though Richards obviously wanted to argue the matter, but after a few seconds of trying to formulate a response, he realized they were ignoring him and left.

Fawkes cocked his head, hands stuffed into his back pockets. "Well, that was fun," his tone clearly indicating the opposite.

Alex turned to him, a wicked gleam in her eyes. "A trip down memory lane you don't care for?"

"Ever been to prison, Alex? It ain't no Club Med, that's for sure," Fawkes snarked, the tension in his shoulders obvious to Hobbes.

She just shrugged. "You are a thief and an ex-con. I didn't make that happen."

Hobbes decided it was time to toss in his two cents. "_Was_ a thief, Monroe. _Was_. Fawkes, here, has turned his life..."

"Oh, no. I _am_ a thief."

"... around." Hobbes whipped about to stare at Fawkes. "What? Waddaya mean you _are_ a thief?"

Fawkes plastered a look of hurt innocence on his face. "Just like Alex said - 'it takes a con to find a con' or a thief to catch a thief."

"That is not what I meant," Monroe argued, one heel coming down with a sharp _crack _to emphasize her point.

"Then what _did_ you mean?" Fawkes gave her a searching look, clearly wanting an honest answer.

She didn't hesitate. "Yes, you _are_ a thief and there was a time I didn't trust you for that reason alone. But it's not _all_ you are. _You_ are a bit more complicated than that."

Fawkes pondered her words, but Hobbes was wondering if he'd forgotten his meds or if the conversation had really gotten that confusing. "Is this some weird Shrek reference?"

"Shrek?" Now it was Monroe who sounded confused, while Fawkes burst out in laughter.

"Onion or parfait?" Darien got out around a bout of snickers.

Alex rolled her eyes. "Layers. Okay, got it."

"Yeah, layers. Is that why you got in Richards' face? 'Cause Fawkes here is more than a petty larcenist?" He didn't always understand Monroe's motivations; she was off in a realm of her own most of the time.

She smiled slightly. "He's _our_ thief. We get to push his buttons. Not jerks like Richards."

"Awww, I didn't know you cared." Fawkes shook his head, still amused.

"So he's _our_ thief now. Not too long ago you woulda..."

Alex interrupted Hobbes' admonishment. "You're right. I would have, and did assume the worst about him." She spread her hands. "I know better now."

"Just like you, Hobbes." Darien was wearing this smug, righteous look.

Hobbes snorted, not denying the truth. Once upon a time he'd been little more than a glorified babysitter for Fawkes, but in the end he too had come around and discovered that, though a thief through and through, Darien Fawkes was also a good man. "All right, smartass, we're agreed ; you're a thief, but you're also a federal agent, which means you got a job to do."

Darien came to attention and saluted sharply. "Sir, yes, sir. Shall I drop and give you 20, sir?"

"Twenty what?" Alex commented, with a smile threatening to break free.

Hobbes wagged a finger in her face, trying to look fierce, but was pretty certain he failed as she chuckled softly. "You are no help, Monroe."

She did a perfect imitation of Fawkes' patented look of put-upon innocence and Hobbes gave the whole thing up as a bad job. Least till he saw the look on Darien's face. It was study in deadly seriousness. This... banter was nothing but a distraction, something to ease the building tension of the situation. A tool, if you would, to keep the stress and the worry at bay. It was also pure Fawkes.

The Freak _had_ to be involved in this; no one else who knew about Quicksilver made any sense. So there was no chance that Fawkes would _not_ take this seriously. He still had some revenge issues to take out on the Swiss Miss Mother's ass. So, Hobbes' words, while seemingly out of left field, made perfect sense to their target audience, "You'll get your chance."

Darien gave him an unreadable look. "Yeah, I will."


	4. chapter 3

The four p.m. meeting started late, but for a change, it wasn't Fawkes' fault. Eberts came rushing into the office at 4:20, carrying only a single slim file, which didn't bode well for the amount of success the über-geek's research had achieved.

"My apologies, the printer jammed due to the recycled paper we use and I..."

"Shut up, Eberts." The Official most assuredly didn't want to hear _why_ his assistant was late, especially if it involved the compromises made because of the perennially strained budget.

Eberts did so and hurried to stand beside his master and commander's desk. He hugged the file to his chest and waited.

Several minutes ticked by, the silence only broken by the faint sound of traffic penetrating through the windows cracked for ventilation.

Fawkes and Hobbes glanced at each other with matching looks of bafflement then they both looked over at Alex whose lips were a thin line signaling an impending explosion.

"Eberts, the file," she growled, unable to take it any longer.

Eberts started. "What? Oh, of course." He opened the file, glancing over the contents he'd probably already memorized. "As we suspected, Murphy Pomerance doesn't exist. What few credentials we could find were forgeries. The car he drove was most likely stolen; the license plate most certainly was. It belongs to Mildred Dresden of Ocean Beach. She reported it missing a week ago, but was unsure when exactly it went missing as she rarely drives these days."

"So you have dead ends. Wonderful." Alex didn't sound any less irritated. "Anything on Arnaud? Last known location? His casino in Las Cruces, perhaps?"

Hobbes was wondering that himself. They knew Arnaud's 'holiday house' hadn't been used since they'd discovered it. The casino was still running, but didn't require his presence to funnel money into off-shore accounts, and the last sighting Hobbes knew of was in Geneva, which was where everyone from Interpol to the MI-6 had lost track of him.

The Official shook his head. "Nothing since Geneva. His Hacienda was confiscated by the Mexican government a year ago. He, by all accounts, has vanished."

"Could he be back with Dr. Rendell?" Alex asked, willing to grasp at any straw.

"Nope," Fawkes answered, surprising Hobbes almost as much as Alex. "What? I'd kinda like to get a hold of him for personal reasons."

"Darien is correct. Dr. Rendell is still out of the country. Milan, as of three weeks ago. We are reasonably certain Monsieur De Fehrn has not attempted to make contact with her." Eberts closed the file.

"So that's it then. We've got nothing." Alex crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back in her chair, discontent written in every line of her body.

Hobbes huffed. "Well, considerin' he could be anywhere..."

"Or anyone," Fawkes added.

"There just ain't no easy way to track him." Hobbes finished.

"He has to have a lab somewhere. He can't produce Quicksilver or cloned skin in the back of a van," Alex pointed out. "There is no way his operation, even with minimal staff, is a low cost one."

"I have searched, Miss Monroe, but he does not appear to be operating within the US. Cooperation from outside governments is limited." Eberts shrugged. "I am still attempting to trace his past activities in hopes of finding his current location, but there is an immense amount of data to sift through and our resources are not as extensive as I would prefer."

The Official cast a warning glance at his lackey, who ignored it. For once, Eberts' griping about resources was completely justified. It takes money to run a business, which the Agency ultimately was, and limited cash meant limited ability.

"All of you get out there and beat the bushes. Someone has seen him, or Pomerance, or Huiclov or..."

"Got it, Chief." Hobbes got to his feet, not entirely sure which bushes were left to beat.

"I have some people I could call," Alex offered as she too stood, clearly glad to have something to do. "I'll be in my office."

Hobbes watched Fawkes, who was just sitting there, looking thoughtful. "Problem?"

"Nope." Fawkes slowly stood, and they followed Alex out into the hall.

"I'll let you know if I find anything," Monroe said, as she turned and headed for the stairwell.

"Works," Hobbes called out as she swung the doors open. "Wanna head over to Wok, Drop and Roll and see if we can scare up some intel?" he asked of Fawkes.

Darien paused, fingers running through his hair. "Actually, I got some things I gotta do."

"Things? What could be more important that this?" Hobbes was fighting the urge to give Fawkes a lecture on how to act like an agent; somehow, he managed to keep his trap shut, but barely. If the kid had things to do, then he had things to do.

"Hobbes..." Darien shook his head. "You know I suck at all that code phrase crap. And I really don't need to revisit my acquaintance with Johnny Castignacci."

Hobbes snorted in amusement. "You got a point, my friend." He cocked his head, thinking. "Meet me for breakfast and compare notes?"

"Fifth Street Café?" The look Darien leveled at Hobbes was imploring. The mook was more than a tad partial to the coffee at that place, or maybe it was the heavily sugared and cream filled pastries.

"Eight a.m.," Hobbes insisted, making Fawkes pout. "Bossman's gonna want us here by nine."

Darien sighed. "Eight a.m. it is. Thanks, man." With a wave, Darien trotted for the stairwell.

"Eight a.m.," Hobbes shouted, as the doors swung shut, though he knew likelihood of the King of Beauty Sleep being conscious at that hour was slim to none. Not that it mattered much. Hobbes was certain he'd find something out on the boardwalk. At the very least he could get some perogies for himself and Claire to keep the evening from being a total waste of time.

He had the feeling hitting the strip wasn't going to get him much in the way of info.

-----

Darien had his own key. He parked right next to Fallon's dusty Jeep, casting a glance in the rearview mirror to be sure the gate had closed before the desperate-for-any-parking-space driver had managed to pull in behind him. This small parking lot near the tourist mecca of Old Town, must seem like an oasis among the endless desert of buildings and no parking signs. The guy wasn't the first one to brave the 'private parking' decree to avoid walking any further than necessary. A few words from one of Fallon's boys was generally more than enough to encourage the driver to move along, especially when they came out carrying one of the weapons they'd been working on inside.

Fallon's people knew where to park on the rare occasion this particular location was full. Fallon had talked the owner of a lot a half block down to reserve spaces for her people. Well, talk and a substantial monetary remuneration. The guy blocked off a bunch of spaces and got paid whether or not they were used. Fallon had certainly learned how to work the system around here to her benefit.

Darien pocketed his keys, since the huge bay doors were rolled up to admit the cool January air. He wasn't worried about going through 'channels' anymore, since he was definitely counted as one of Fallon's people now. And not just because he was sleeping with her.

As soon as he neared the building, half a dozen people called out greetings, which Darien returned. He _liked_ these people. Whatever they had been before coming to work at _the fourth monkey_, which ran the gamut from the boring to the unbelievable, no longer mattered. Here they'd become one squabbling, bickering, dysfunctional, and intensely loyal family. At first, they'd been aloof, but after his third job, it became obvious he'd passed some unofficial test and they'd invited him to an after-job party that had been astonishingly fun. It was what he had envisioned as his life as a thief, and while he still (or was that once again?) considered himself a thief, he knew he was also more.

'Not just a...' fill in the blank had become a dawning realization over the last few months. Not just a thief. Not just a secret agent. Not just an invisible man. He was 'not just a' lot of things these days. And yet, he still wasn't entirely certain _what_ he was.

Some days it was all just little confusing.

The sculpture he and several others had helped get situated, the huge trunk hauled and held upright while Fallon secured it to the elaborate base, was coming along well, the painstaking detail work appearing to be about half done based on the drawings he'd seen of the piece. The ladder and welding equipment sitting nearby, suggested that Fallon had been working on it recently. A local gallery, upon discovering _the_ Fallon O'Neill was living in town had requested the piece and she been more than happy to accommodate them. One thing Darien had learned about the frightfully aloof woman was that of all the things she did, working on her sculptures was her favorite, and when she was most likely to drop those walls she hid behind and let herself be seen by others.

"Darien, she's upstairs."

He gave Gilly a wave of thanks and headed for the back stairwell that led to the apartments on the upper floors. He took the stairs two at a time up to the second floor where he made a beeline for the open door that led into Fallon's personal space. He knocked on the doorframe as he stepped in and called out, "Anybody home?"

He heard a muffled, "Come in," and a moment later Fallon appeared, toweling her hair dry and wearing only a silky black robe.

"Hot date?" Darien asked, lips quirking upwards.

"Business meeting in LA," she set on hand on her hip. "Care t'join me?"

Darien fought the instant urge to say 'yes.' The offer was very tempting, but on this occasion, he was going to have to decline. "Can't," he finally said.

She tossed the towel over the back of a chair, her hair wild and unruly. "Hot date?"

Darien chuckled. Fair was fair, after all. "Actually, I need a favor."

She leaned back against the wall, arms crossing over her chest. "What kind of favor?" The flirtation had cut off instantly. She was all business now. He sometimes envied how easily she could switch tracks like that.

"Huiclov de Fehrn escaped from prison."

"Aye. I know."

"I need anything you have on his or Arnaud's whereabouts." Darien watched her, waiting for the axe to fall, but after a moment of silence, she smiled.

"I was expecting ye t'drop by," she casually informed him and pushed away from the wall. She sorted through the disks on her table and after a few seconds found the one she was looking for. "Ye'll owe me special for this."

"Done. We can negotiate specifics later." It hadn't taken long for him to get a solid grasp on how she did business, and he knew she would play fair with him, assigning work equal to the value of the intel and no more. "How'd you know I'd be dropping by?"

She shrugged once he'd taken the vivid red jewel case from her hand. "I 'ear things."

He wagged a finger at her. "You've been spying on the Agency, haven't you?"

She admitted nothing.

"Only fair, I suppose. I can pretty much guarantee the Official's been keeping tabs on you and yours."

"Trying to, more like." She nodded at the disk. "That's all we've been able to find out since Arnaud 'it the US three months ago. 'E _is_ difficult to track, so we followed the money. 'E's made some interesting purchases the last few months."

Darien wasn't the least bit surprised that she had already succeeded at the very task Eberts had been set to. With her info, they'd be a step further along in the game. "Why are you looking into Arnaud's doings?"

Her look went completely blank. "I 'ave me reasons."

_'Whoops. Wrong button.'_ Darien realized quickly and stepped back from the virtual precipice. "Any idea what he's up to?"

She paced slowly across the room to stand by the window, a contemplative look on her face. "'Ave your Mr. Eberts check into a DOD project code named Chameleon."

"Why?" Darien asked in curiosity.

"'Ow much are ye willing t'pay?"

Darien whistled. "That big, huh?"

Fallon declined to answer. _'Crap. What the hell was the Swiss Miss Mother mixed up in now?'_ He walked over to her and flashed the disk. "Thanks."

"No need. "Tis business."

He supposed it was, for her anyway. For him it was _very_ personal. Speaking of which... he closed the distance between them, his free hand coming up to brush along her cheek. Fallon watched him, her eyes flicking from side to side as she searched his. As if by unspoken agreement, they came together, lips meeting and parting, partaking of each other one slow sip at a time.

He pulled back reluctantly, his heart pounding in his chest, wanting her, but resisted the temptation to part the material of the robe and slide it down her shoulders to pool on the floor at their feet, unneeded and forgotten. Slowly he released a shaky breath and rested his forehead against hers. Her hands sat comfortably on his hips, awaiting his decision as to whether or not they were going to continue.

When he did nothing she said, "Ye 'ave work t'do."

Darien sighed. "Yeah, I do." He shifted to take possession of her lips once more, staking his claim on her time and body. "Really gotta go," he muttered, still unable to move.

She laughed and gently pushed him away. "I be thinking ye don' want to."

He smiled. "Business before pleasure."

"Don' I know it." Her look turned serious. "Good 'untin'. Let me know 'ow it goes."

"I will." Darien finally found himself able to turn away and headed for the door. He had his cell out, number dialed, and against his ear by the time he hit the stairwell. "Eberts, got some info for you to dig up. Yes, it has to do with the case. A DOD project called Chameleon."


	5. chapter 4

Fawkes knew too much.

He'd been wide awake, dressed and raring to go when Hobbes knocked on his partner's door at exactly 0800. And to make matters worse, Fawkes had been focused entirely on work, complete with print-outs showing the Phone's money trail for the last few months. When Hobbes had asked if Fawkes had gotten the info from Eberts, the uninformative response had been, "he's got copies," which made Hobbes more than a bit suspicious. He didn't say anything though, because how was he supposed to explain that Fawkes taking his job seriously was frickin' weird. Though Arnaud _was_ involved; which was probably more than enough to motivate his partner into taking the job seriously.

Still, it was strange having Fawkes head into a meeting more prepared than anyone else. Hobbes'd feel jealous if he wasn't so certain he and Fawkes were still the dynamic duo of the Agency.

The meeting was going to be a memorable one with everyone (everyone of importance, that is) in attendance. Eberts stood at the far end of the conference table, a laptop, and a small video projector before him. On the screen opposite was the DOD seal with the words TOP SECRET stenciled across it in red letters.

Eberts and the Official were fiddling with a remote control and arguing softly. Finally, Eberts slapped the Official's hands away, pointed the remote at the projector, and pressed a button, changing the image on the screen. With an indignant huff, the Official took his seat.

"What have you got for us, Eberts?" Monroe asked, smiling up at him and making him turn a pale pink.

"We believe we know where Monsieur De Fehrn is, and what he's planning," Eberts answered concisely. "Thanks to information brought to my attention, we were able to track various money transfers, and a month ago he rented a warehouse in Boulder, Colorado under one of his aliases."

"Colorado?" Hobbes repeated. "What could he possibly want in Colorado?"

"Project Chameleon." Eberts clicked the remote and the image changed. It was a pic of some guy wearing what looked like a shiny black wetsuit that was so tight you could see the outline of every muscle, but Hobbes hadn't a clue what he was really looking at. The next image was of the same guy, however all that was visible were his bare hands, feet and head. He could just discern the outline of the suit. It was practically invisible against the generic foliage background.

"Quicksilver?" Claire queried; a hint of propriety surprise in her voice.

"No," Monroe said. "It's not invisible, just camouflaged." She turned to the Official. "Smart cloth?"

The Official's lip twitched. "You've heard of it?"

Monroe shrugged. "Here and there. Though I didn't know they'd gotten this far."

"Few people do," Eberts informed her. "The DOD program to create clothing capable of changing to preset camouflage settings is ongoing. This," he gestured at the screen, "is another program entirely."

"A horse of a different color, shall we say." The Official spread his hands, as if gleefully sharing a nifty new toy he had found.

"So what is this program?" Hobbes asked, hoping to avoid an in-depth technical review right now. The basics would be more than enough for the time being.

"N.E.S.T.A.," Eberts answered.

"Which stands for...?" Hobbes prompted.

"Neural Enhancement Sensory and Tactical Array," Fawkes answered.

Hobbes, Claire, and Monroe all turned to stare at him with matching quizzical expressions.

"Stop looking at me like I grew horns or something," Fawkes groused, sounding defensive. "I was here till one a.m. helping Ebes."

"Quite true, and he was very helpful. The data he provided is what allowed me to confirm the connection between Arnaud and the Chameleon Project." Eberts explained.

"You should have seen the geekasm he went into once he cracked the project encryption," Darien said with a grin.

Hobbes snorted as Ebes blushed a vivid crimson and mumbled, "I do enjoy my work."

"Yes, I imagine you do," Monroe tossed in with a tight smile. "Back to topic; if they're not the smart suits, _what_ are they?"

Claire got up from her seat and wandered over to the screen and the current image, which was a technical spec sheet of the suit. The image had obviously been reduced to fit, since the print had been rendered so small it was impossible to read from where Hobbes sat.

She traced her fingers over the words, muttering to herself, "Neural fibers... tubing... drug wells..." She spun about. "Nano technology?"

Eberts checked his notes. "To a degree, yes. The material of the suit contains millions of nanoprocessors and micro LCD displays." He frowned slightly. "Sort of. Standard LCDs can't handle any serious impact, but the suit can reportedly withstand a rocket propelled grenade fired at close range."

"Bloody hell," Claire grumbled, clearly not thrilled at the news.

"Keep, you know something?" Hobbes questioned, though by the look on her face he was pretty certain she did.

"Maybe?" She threw up her hands in obvious frustration. "Several years before I joined the Agency, I participated in a theoretical symposium that covered ways of artificially enhancing endurance and strength for military personnel. Super-suits like these were one of the more popular ideas. But the technology needed to create even a prototype was years away."

"Not that many," Hobbes snarked. It was easy to forget that Claire had had an entire career before coming to the Agency; that she had worked for the DOD almost exclusively for over a decade. Only the actions of now ex-General Grimmond and her need to cure Gloria had allowed them to cross paths. The Keeper kept far more than just Fawkes; she held secrets that the Official might not even know about.

"Apparently," Claire agreed and returned to her seat. "I assume they are using drugs plus direct neural stimulation to enhance the wearer's abilities."

Eberts nodded. "I was unable to access the detailed technical specs, but the propaganda suggests the wearer's normal abilities are enhanced tenfold."

Hobbes gave a low whistle. "So these guys can do... what? Lift cars? Run fast? X-ray vision?"

"Leap tall buildings in a single bound?" Darien tossed in with more than a touch of sarcasm.

Much to Hobbes' surprise Monroe chuckled in honest amusement. The woman had turned into an actual human being over the last few months. It still surprised him to see wonder woman acting just like everyone else.

"Jealous, Fawkes?" she teased.

Fawkes shrugged, unconcerned.

"Don't laugh," the Official interjected. "In one of these suits trained personnel can do just about anything short of fly."

Monroe shook her head in disbelief. "Yay for our team. But what does this have to do with Arnaud?"

Darien groaned. "He's pulling the same stunt he did at Perseus, ain't he?"

"Shit," Hobbes muttered. "Fawkes is right. He could steal the suits, put his own men in them then rent them out to the highest bidder."

"Oh my," Claire breathed. "Is there any chance he could have infiltrated the project?"

Both Eberts and the Official suddenly gained identical frowns.

"Of course he could," Monroe stated. "He's done it before."

Fawkes rubbed his face in his hands. Hobbes could just imagine what was going through his partner's mind. He'd been there when Arnaud's band of hired thugs had stormed the lab and slaughtered everyone inside. Including his brother, Kevin Fawkes. Although it had been three years since his brother had been killed at the Perseus Lab, Fawkes still hurt, still had regrets, and still missed his brother more than he was willing to admit.

Monroe straightened in her seat. "Eberts, are you certain he's targeting this project?"

Eberts nodded. "Based on the data I have, his last known location was Steamboat Springs, Colorado, which is where we believe the Chameleon Lab is located."

"That's northern Colorado. Ain't much up there and the terrain varies from desert to mountain," Hobbes pointed out. The term 'rugged' could have been coined for the area.

"Sounds like the perfect place to test the viability of this technology." Claire sounded far from pleased. "Weather conditions will be optimal as well. Everything from desert heat to deep snow at the higher elevations."

"But there are hundreds, if not thousands, of areas that will fit that criteria," Monroe argued. "Can we be certain Arnaud is there."

Eberts hugged the file to his chest and grimaced. "One hundred percent? No. But he transferred a large sum of money from his offshore account to a bank in Steamboat Springs just three weeks ago. Why would he do that if he were not there?"

"To pay someone off?" Monroe suggested, always certain that her point of view was the correct one, no matter what the facts might show. "To lay a false trail? Any of a dozen reasons."

Darien shifted and quietly said, "It's the best lead we have." He turned to meet her suspicious gaze. "Yeah, it's a long shot. A whole lot of ifs strung together, which I _know_ you don't like..."

She smiled grimly.

"But what if we're right?"

She nodded reluctantly. "I'm going to hope we're wrong, because if he gets his hands on those suits..."

Hobbes watched the interplay between Monroe and Fawkes in silence, wondering just when his partner had started taking lessons in subtle manipulation. Not that he hadn't had plenty of teachers in recent years - the Keeper, the Official, and the newest of the bunch, Fallon O'Neill - Hobbes just hadn't realized Fawkes had been learning a trick or two during that time. Something beyond the highly effective whipped puppy look and batting those long lashes of his, that is.

Yeah, Fawkes had been a con-man once upon a time, but Hobbes had never really seen him use those skills and figured that Fawkes had been just as bad a con-man as he'd been a thief. That might have been true in the past; Hobbes truly couldn't say, but now... now Fawkes was looking to be getting dangerous.

And Hobbes couldn't decide if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

The discussion had moved on while he'd been considering that once again, Fawkes had proved he was not the wet-behind-the-ears kid he had been when Bobby Hobbes had taken him under his wing.

Claire was looking over some print-outs that lay on the table, Monroe hovering next to her.

Fawkes was leaning back in his chair, brooding, and thinking too much for his own good. "Ebes, how are the enhancement drugs stored?" he asked.

"Umm... let me check." Eberts skimmed through his notes until he found the page he wanted. "The various drugs are stored in a cavity in the upper back of the suit and delivered via the vena cava. Why?"

Fawkes turned to Claire. "Anything could be stored there, right? Like, say, a poison?"

Claire mulled the question for a moment. "I'd need more details to be certain, but probably."

Fawkes nodded; the cogs and wheels spinning wildly under that fur-covered brain of his. "Could they be adapted to store Quicksilver?"

Claire tapped the table with one delicate forefinger. "It is possible, but why bother? If these specs are accurate, the wearer would be virtually invisible anyway."

Hobbes wondered what station his partner's train of thought was pulling into this time.

Fawkes faced the Official, head cocked slightly to the left, and said one word, "Backpack."

The Official grunted as if kicked. "Doctor, could the delivery system be modified in such a way?"

Claire threw up her hands. "Possibly? I don't have enough information to give you a definitive answer."

"So, he'd not only have a super-suit, but his own Quicksilver backpacks to sell to the highest bidder." Hobbes did _not_ like where this was going at all. The Freak in control of invisibility was bad enough, but this... this was more than enough to drive a paranoid man over the edge. "He'd control the enhancement drugs and the Quicksilver..."

"Or counteragent," Fawkes interjected.

"Huh?"

"Think about it for a sec. With the suit tech he might be able to simply stick a gland into the 'backpack' and use those nanoprocessors to control the on and off, plus, they'd still end up dependent on him for the counteragent. If he pulls a similar stunt with the suits..." He let the sentence hang, leaving the entire room gaping at him.

Monroe eyed Fawkes warily. "Fawkes, sometimes your insight scares me. Good damn thing you're on our side."

"Now that's a big assumption, ain't it?" Hobbes said, only half serious at best. Considering Fawkes had been hanging out with O'Neill for a while now, there were days one had to wonder just where his loyalties lay.

Fawkes just snorted in amusement.

"The damage he could do with these technologies is... unimaginable," Claire declared in barely contained anger.

"Which is why we are going to stop him," the Official decreed peremptorily.

"You said it, Chief. Eberts, how long till the suits are operational?" That was the important question right now, and he could only hope the answer would be months - years even - which would give them plenty of time to track down Arnaud and stop him.

"They're due to take their first major field test in a week," Eberts responded in a tiny voice.

"A week?" Monroe repeated in exasperation. "We're screwed."

"Can you get us in?" Hobbes queried, knowing they needed to get moving on this yesterday.

"I don't know. Yet," the Official rumbled. "Miss Monroe, any assistance you can render..."

"You'll have it," she swiftly replied. "I'll have transport on standby."

The Official nodded. "Boys, stay nearby, you'll be leaving as soon as everything's arranged."

Fawkes sighed. "Ah, the ol' hurry up and wait." He glanced about the room. "Lunch anyone?"

Hobbes rubbed his hands together. "Good idea. Schmaltzy's is just down the street," he suggested.

"Take it outside," the Official barked, "some of us have work to do."

"Yes, sir." Hobbes got to his feet.

"And bring me a number three on rye," the Official added.

Fawkes snickered softly as he held the door open for Claire.

Hobbes joined them in the hall a couple minutes later with a list for the threesome in the office. "And just when did I say I was buying?" he grumbled. "Fatman don't pay me near enough to _feed_ 'im." That was putting it mildly; the 'Fish had ordered enough food to feed an army platoon.

"S'okay, Hobbesy, we'll split the bill with you, won't we Claire?" Fawkes offered, preventing Hobbes from going off on a rant about how little he was being paid.

"Of course," Claire agreed, apparently not upset at Fawkes including her in the buying spree.

"Oh, okay then," Hobbes told them with a grin. It was good to know they weren't going to leave him hanging out in the wind. "You tagging along, Fawkes?"

Claire spoke up before Fawkes got a chance to. "Actually, I need Darien in the lab."

Fawkes' eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Why?"

"Nothing you need to worry about. I just need to draw some blood," she explained, her expression carefully schooled to reveal nothing. That, of course, set off Fawkes' 'oh crap' alarms.

"You poked me a week ago. What's up?" Fawkes crossed his arms over his chest and got a stubborn look on his face.

She was about to answer when he added, "And don't say 'nothing' 'cause I won't believe you."

She frowned slightly.

Hobbes scootched over next to his partner, presenting a united front against the good doctor and her evasions. "Cough it up, Keepy."

Claire sighed. "The last round of tests was off and I need to determine if it was the equipment or the sample."

"Oh. I haven't fasted though," Fawkes warned her.

"Not a problem; what I'm testing for won't be affected," she assured him. "No getting out of it today, I'm afraid."

Fawkes snapped his fingers. "Can't blame a guy for trying, right?"

"And you can be very trying indeed," Claire quipped with a grin.

"Ooo. Ouch." Hobbes wet a finger and drew an invisible hash mark in the air. "That's one for the Keeper."

Fawkes pouted. "That's right, take her side."

Hobbes shrugged. "Only when she's right, my friend. Not my fault she's right most a'the time." He winked at his partner, who ducked his head and shuffled his feet to hide the smile.

Claire set a hand on Fawkes' forearm and sidled closer to look him in the eye. She didn't say a word; just searched Fawkes' face as if trying to gauge exactly how much her comment had hurt him. Knowing Fawkes, he was playing it up for all he was worth.

Hobbes cleared his throat, loudly. "And suddenly I feel like a fifth wheel." After the conversation he and Claire had had, he couldn't help but wonder if something was going on between the two of them. Something more than just Keeper/Kept, doctor/patient, or two friends who had crossed that friendship line once already. Jealousy flared for an instant, but he covered it with a sweet smile. "You two want the usual?"

"Yes, Bobby." Claire took a step back with an oddly shy smile on her face that didn't help ease his worry any.

"Uh, get me a number four too." Fawkes pulled out his wallet and counted out some bills.

"That's a ton of food, partner," Hobbes pointed out as he took the proffered cash.

"Yeah, but if things fall into place we might not get another chance for a while." Fawkes patted his flat stomach. "Need to keep the engine fueled, my man." The logic was flawless even if it was being used to justify his eating twice his own weight in food. His point was valid though. If they ended up in a tight situation where he had to go see-through for an extended period, he'd need the energy. Hobbes made a mental note to stock up on snacks before hitting the road. Didn't need the gland crapping out at an inconvenient moment.

"Do you really think that will happen?" Claire asked with what struck Hobbes as naiveté.

"Pretty much guaranteed. The boss whispers the word 'terrorist' in the right ear and we'll have all the clearance we need. Whole country's bugaboo on the subject right now."

Fawkes' eyebrows rose and his lips twisted in amusement. " 'Bugaboo'?"

"You making fun of my choice of words, pal?"

Fawkes feigned complete innocence. "Me? Never. Now get out of here before you can't, I'm hungry."

"All right, I'm going, I'm going." Hobbes headed for the stairwell and down towards the lobby.

* * *

Once certain Bobby was out of earshot, Darien turned to Claire. "You sure there's nothing wrong?"

Claire eyed him appraisingly. "Perhaps I should be asking you that. What aren't you telling me?"

Darien shook his head. "Nothing, really. Just having some weird dreams."

"Define 'weird'." Claire's 'oh shit' radar had clearly been piqued by his admission, but given he _was_ prone to oddly prophetic dreams; it wasn't too surprising she'd take an interest.

"Like, in them I'm Quicksilvermad, weird."

Claire frowned deeply. "Ah-hunh," she said.

" 'Ah-hunh'?" Darien echoed. "Claire, what's going on?"

"We are heading to the Keep so I can draw blood." She could easily see the fear that had suddenly blossomed in his heart written on his face. "I won't _know_ anything until I run some tests. All right?"

Darien sighed, shoulders slumping dramatically. "No, but at least it's an honest answer. Some days..."

" 'Some days' what?"

"Some days I just want to hear everything's fine." He straightened and met her eyes squarely. "Even if it's a lie."


	6. chapter 5

Hobbes glanced over at Fawkes, who muttered something intelligible in his sleep as the jet Monroe had managed to borrow shuddered, hitting some clear-air turbulence. Sometimes, not often, but sometimes, Monroe and her innumerable relationships were worth the price of admission. He could just imagine the transport the Official would have wangled at the last moment. Military chopper at the best, ground transport -- probably Golda -- at the worst, and while never one to eschew a free ride, Hobbes'd much rather travel in corporate luxury than the hard seats and open doors of a Marine helicopter.

Still, they hadn't exactly had a whole lot of time to prepare for this little jaunt. They'd hung around the office all day and well into the evening before word came down just before midnight that they'd gotten permission to go to the Chameleon Lab. They'd been in the air within an hour with no more than the clothes on their backs and what gear they had on hand, which was little or nothing. Hobbes had his weapons, Fawkes his lockpicks and Monroe... Well, he wasn't entirely sure whatall Monroe had with her, aside from her usual collection of weaponry. He'd been damn surprised when, once at cruising altitude, she'd pulled out a Blackberry and begun furiously typing on it. If you could call pressing those tiny buttons with your thumbs typing, that is.

Bobby wished he'd been able to sleep as easily as his partner. Oh, he'd dozed for a bit, but woke feeling no more rested than before he'd forced his eyes closed. He was just too wired; part of him wanting to climb outside the jet and _push_ it if it would get them to their destination faster. Deep in his gut, he knew they were too late already. That the monster under the bed had crawled out into the night-darkened room and crouched down beside the bed, ready to pounce upon its intended victim.

Yet part of him remained just as certain that this would turn out to be nothing more than just paranoia-induced drama caused by one missing prisoner. Smoke and mirrors. It didn't matter that every bit of evidence pointed to this being a real threat. It didn't matter that the Official himself had taken this whole thing very seriously. _None_ of it mattered simply because of the ultimate source of the intel was someone he could not... would not trust -- Fallon O'Neill.

_She_ had warned Fawkes that Huiclov looked to be going AWOL. _She_ had passed on the tidbit about the Chameleon Project. _She_ had provided the money trail on Da Freak's whereabouts -- Eberts' verification notwithstanding.

_She_ was the source and _she_ couldn't be trusted. Not with intel and certainly _not_ with his partner.

_Shit._ He knew he couldn't be rational when it came to O'Neill, but he couldn't seem to help himself, even with an international list of government agencies that considered her the golden go-to girl on intrigue. Granted, not her specifically, but her _company_; her little band of mercenaries, who were just as likely to provide information _to_ Al Qaeda as on them.

Okay, maybe not to Bin Laden, but the IRA, ETA, Combat 18, or the Free Quebec Militia and a dozen more that she had worked for in the past. Who really knew how many deaths she had been the cause of over the years. Hundreds... thousands maybe. And yet she went blithely on about her business as if it were no more than that -- just business.

Bobby pinched the bridge of his nose. Yeah, it was business, and it was his to stop her.

He glanced at Monroe, who had the project file open on the flip-down table, her face lit up by the Blackberry's tiny LCD screen. He'd asked her opinion of O'Neill and gotten a shrug. Monroe had never met O'Neill personally, though she'd hired _the fourth monkey_ on a couple of occasions -- one personal and one work-related. She felt much like the Official did: reliable, good intel that had been more than worth the price. In fact, she had trouble comprehending why Bobby _didn't_ like them.

Ultimately, that had been an easy one to answer though he hadn't aloud -- Fawkes was hanging out there, maybe working for them, and _definitely _sleeping with O'Neill. But he wasn't gonna tell Monroe that, she'd call him an idiot for allowing personal feelings to interfere with business (which was true), and anyway why shouldn't Fakwes be allowed a life outside the Agency, especially with a woman as beautiful as O'Neill reportedly was.

Bobby knew Monroe was right, knew that whatever Fawkes did on his own time was _his_ business and none of Bobby Hobbes', yet...

_God fucking damn it._ He'd become fixated on O'Neill, and not in a good way -- if there could be a good way for an obsession to manifest.

It wasn't fair to Fawkes, who to all appearances had handled the transition of co-workers to lovers between Bobby and Claire just fine. Yeah, there'd been some changes, some bumps along the way, but everything had been smoothed over... except for Fawkes' fascination with O'Neill.

Bobby sighed and looked at the bonehead in question who had managed to contort himself into an ungainly sprawl; his long legs seeming to stretch three times further than usual. His hands were loosely entwined on his stomach, which rose and fell with every breath. His lips were slightly parted, a soft snore escaping with every exhale.

He hadn't a care in the world.

The plane did a sudden stomach-rising drop then leveled out again. Fawkes snorted, the snoring cutting off abruptly, but he never woke. Instead, he shifted position slightly in unconscious acknowledgement of the unusual movement of the plane then returned to his slumber.

Bobby shook his head in amusement, unsurprised that his cat-like partner could sleep through the turbulence. Knowing he would not be able to do the same, he picked up the Chameleon Project file to go over it again.

The _real_ file.

Not the PR crap Eberts had gotten his hands on. Not that that info had been... wrong. It just hadn't been _complete_, and the truth about some things had been fudged more than a bit. Like those tiny LCDs Eberts claimed the suit was covered with. Not even close. Instead, the suit had been covered with tiny slices of a man-made crystal called Chromatazite. A crystal that had to be grown, not only in weightless conditions, but in vacuum. Which explained, to Hobbes anyway, why there were so many space-walks on the ISS. Really, how many times did you have to fix the same converter?

The crystal itself was nothing to write home about, just a dull gray six-sided rock that grew to about an eighth inch in diameter and half a foot long. Tests had revealed it was stronger than diamond yet flexible, and could take one hell of a beating without any noticeable damage, but it wasn't until they applied an electrical current to it that they discovered its true value. To all intents and purposes, the sample of crystal vanished, matching the color or colors of whatever was near -- just like a chameleon. More tests showed that the crystal responded to electrical stimuli in a manner similar to chromatophores found in the cells of squids and octopods. And while they didn't work like the melanophores of chameleons and similar creatures, the name had been chosen mostly because it sounded a hell of a lot better than "Squid Project."

And the suit was covered with thousands of them. With the flip of a switch, the wearer would vanish into the background. The effect worked best when still; a delay in color change appeared when moving, though nothing dramatic, mere microseconds, minimal enough that the human eye could just barely see it. Fawkes called it the Predator effect after the force-field-like cloaking device used by the aliens in the Schwarzenegger movie and its sequels.

The info on the suit had been accurate, with the sole of exception of the material it had been made out of, which remained undisclosed. Apparently, it was way more top secret than the Chromatazite, which said something, Hobbes just wasn't sure what. The only new data had been about the how of the suit. It and the human wired into it became the equivalent of a huge computer system, the wires, drugs, silicon, etc., all working together as a single unit. Had to, or the whole shebang would fall to pieces. Just the control system had taken months to learn for the final four chosen to test the suits.

And it worked. That amazed him most of all. The whole complex melding of man and machine worked, turning ordinary humans into the stuff of dreams... or comic books. Superheroes for the 21st century. Manmade, ones, but heroes nonetheless.

Which explained why Da Freak was so interested in it.

Shit, Hobbes was interested. Who wouldn't be? The tech was amazing, no doubt about that, but he couldn't help but wonder about the long term effects. Even with drugs to make everything work flawlessly, the wearers systems might burn out, the energy used unequal to the fuel coming in, their bodies unable to handle the extreme overcharging of their systems. No one could run at one hundred percent forever and these guys were running at a thousand. That there could be the risk of addiction, the wearers unable to adjust back to normal body function, returning to being a snail after so much time spent as a shooting star streaking across the heavens. And that was just physiological problems. There was also that entire computer system running the show. Hobbes could think of a dozen ways it could be abused, just one bad signal, intentional or not, and the suit goes haywire destroying the wearer, while leaving the equipment intact. Driving the wearer mad with false input, simple glitches, or bugs that could take over control of the man behind the invisible mask, turning him from the controller to the slave.

Going Quicksilver Mad suddenly seemed like a tiny complication compared to all that could go wrong with the suits. Fawkes might not be able to bend steel with his bare hands, but he'd done a hell of a lot of good with the tools he'd been given.

Yeah, Hobbes was impressed, but he wasn't a fool. If offered the chance of wearing a NESTA suit (which he knew he would never happen), he'd turn the _privilege_ down.

The plane's engines changed pitch, signaling the beginning of their descent into Boulder. There they were scheduled to be met by a contingent of Marines, who would then escort them to the "secret" location of the Chameleon Lab. Really, how secret could it be if Arnaud found it? They had not been told how they were getting to the lab. They might have to endure several hours in a vehicle to reach their final destination.

Monroe following protocol, turned off her Blackberry, set the file aside, and locked the tray back into the seat before her.

"Any news?" Hobbes asked.

"Only that Director Seiber is not very happy about our visit," she replied, relaxing back into the seat just as the plane slid sideways in the air.

Fawkes snorted and jerked upright. He gazed about blearily for a few seconds before yawning hugely; arms stretched high over his head. "How much longer," he mumbled, drawing his legs in and stuffing them in the tiny gap between the seats.

"We just started our descent," Monroe answered. "We should be on the ground in ten minutes or so."

"Cool. Think we're gonna pull this one off?" He turned to meet Hobbes' eyes.

"Of course we will. The intel is good." Hobbes couldn't deny that, the intel _was_ good, excellent even. He just didn't care for the source all that much.

Fawkes chuckled softly. "You're still pissed Fallon got us the in we needed."

Hobbes shrugged, not about to argue the point.

"Why does it matter where the info came from if it's good?" Fawkes asked all serious now.

Hobbes took a deep breath, wanting to say this calmly and not turn it into another screaming match over the owner of _the fourth monkey_. Finally he said, "Because for all I know, she sold Arnie the intel that got him into the lab."

"She wouldn't..."

Hobbes cut off Fawkes' instant defense of O'Neill. "Yes, she would. She's played both sides of the fence from the get-go. She'll sell the intel to whoever will pay for it," he pointed an index finger directly at his partner, "and you know it."

"So you keep saying, but I ain't seen nothing to prove it," Fawkes argued, voice tight with barely restrained anger. "I went to her and asked her for info on Arnaud and she gave it; no questions asked."

"And what's it gonna cost ya?" Hobbes snapped right back.

"My soul," was the instant response without a trace of humor anywhere in his demeanor. "Least she's honest about what she does."

"You get what you pay for, huh?" Hobbes couldn't seem to stop himself, the words just coming out without him even having to pause to think. "Then I guess your soul ain't worth much these days."

Fawkes snorted in wry amusement. "You can thank the 'Fish for that. He's managed to suck it dry."

Hobbes readied another quick comeback when shrill whistle cut him off. Both men turned to stare at the source: Alex Monroe.

"The two of you, bickering like children." She turned an icy stare to Hobbes first. "Are you his mother?"

"Uh..." Hobbes just barely got out before she rolled over the top of him.

"You're not. You don't like his girl, friends, whatever, grow up and deal with it."

Hobbes felt his mouth snap shut.

Then she turned to Fawkes. "And you need to watch yourself. She may not be the evil mercenary many seem to think, but she's no innocent. If the 'Fish finds out you're... bartering for info, he might very well come down on you hard, no matter how good or useful the intel."

Fawkes shook his head ever so slightly. "And you're making the assumption that he doesn't know all about it."

Monroe pursed her lips, which made her look as if she'd just tasted something outrageously sour. "True enough. Still, there are limits to how much insubordination the Official will take, even from you."

Fawkes just shrugged. "S'not like I'm selling state secrets here."

"Yet," Hobbes grumbled.

Fawkes' head snapped about. "Wouldn't happen, and Fallon wouldn't ask."

Strangely enough, Hobbes believed his partner on that score, but there was little chance of him admitting it. Beneath their feet, the landing gear clanked its way into position.

"Think you two can focus on the job at hand and save the bickering for off-duty?" Monroe inquired, her tone only slightly tinged with irritation.

"Yes, ma'am," Fawkes said with a hastily snapped salute.

"What he said," Hobbes added, hooking his thumb in the kid's direction.

Monroe rolled her eyes, clearly not believing either of them. Not that Hobbes would put any effort into convincing her. He could not stand that Fawkes hung out with those hoodlums, and worse, it now looked like he was working for them, some a'the time anyway. It didn't sit well with Bobby. Yeah, this time he'd done it for a good cause, getting the dirt on Arnaud and all, but who knew what kind of trouble the kid could get into working for _her_. Dead could happen, or arrested, or sold to some Middle Eastern terrorist group for an exorbitant amount of money... the possibilities were too numerous to count.

And that would never be a good thing. Trouble was, much as Monroe had been forced to point out (or would that be shove down his throat?), he was not the kid's mother, but that didn't make things any easier. Fawkes was making all the wrong choices for all the wrong reasons. He was supposed to go out and find a girl, a lady, not a borderline psychopath with her own personal hit squad at her beck and call.

Hobbes pulled himself up short. Yeah, he didn't trust O'Neill, but she wasn't _that _bad. Pretty honest for a merc and all, the Official considered her a useful resource and rumor had it _the fourth monkey_ had been added to Eberts' speed dial. So there had to be _something_ there. Right?

He would have to think about that. Clearly, he had become a bit irrational when it came to Fallon O'Neill. Or O'Neill and his partner. Or maybe it was something else entirely. Hobbes didn't know any more, and he had no time to deal with it now; the plane suddenly lurched in the air, the flaps coming up and slowing the plane as if the pilot had slammed on the brakes. He... they had a job to do and he needed to focus on it.

The next several minutes were taken up with the joys of landing a small plane with crosswinds, which overall went well, if stomach-lurching in a few spots. It wasn't quite a white-knuckle ride, but it tried really hard.

On the ground, they were met by a Sergeant Sims, who had been assigned the joyless task of escorting them back to the Chameleon Lab. The frown permanently burned into his features didn't help matters any, and convinced Hobbes they'd be taking the slow boat to the lab.

Introductions were made, if perfunctorily, and they were led to a Humvee and waved inside.

Monroe made the first attempt at ice-breaking.

"Sergeant, I understand that your Director feels all this is unnecessary, but we can assure you the threat is very real."

"Of course you can. Which is why you dragged me away from my security detail while in the midst of a four day test so you can take the grand tour." His tone just barely managed to not be snarky, but the sarcasm wouldn't have been missed by a deaf man.

"Wait. What do you mean 'in the midst of a four day test'?" Hobbes questioned, dread sinking deep into his gut. "According to the info we have the final testing is next week."

Sims snorted. "Right, like we'd announce the date of the real test." He made it quite clear he thought the lot of them were all idiots.

The three agents glanced at each other, the same looks of concern on all their faces.

"Sims, if there is the slightest chance we're right then we have a big problem," Monroe stated, keeping her voice calm.

"And just why is that?" Sims questioned, the belief that they were nothing more than tourists still written on his face.

" 'Cause the last time Arnaud pulled a stunt like this he did it right in the middle of final testing and slaughtered everyone at the facility," Fawkes answered in a tight voice.

Sims gave Fawkes a look fraught with meaning, then dismissed him as unimportant. "And how would you know that?"

"I was the only survivor," Fawkes answered frankly, sitting up a little straighter as he did so. "Look, you can think we're as nutty as you want, but your bosses didn't let us in the door because of our wit and charm. If there's even the slightest chance our intel is correct..." He intentionally trailed off, leaving it to Sims to fill in the blanks and come to decision.

After a couple minutes, Sims nodded sharply. "You're not as dumb as you look. Good."

Hobbes eyebrows headed north. Sims'd been testing them? What the hell did that mean?

"So?" Fawkes prompted when neither Hobbes nor Monroe came up with a response.

"Director Seiber agrees with you, which is why you're being delivered ASAP."

They pulled up beside a military helicopter, not a gunship, but damn close.

Looked like someone was taking them seriously for a change.

* * *

On the wall before them stood a collage of moving images, rooms and halls, people, and seemingly random doors all shifting and changing as if to some music unheard by those only able to view the displayed results. And those were just the security monitors, time stamps counting up the tenths of a second in the bottom right corner of every screen. To their left were more monitors, duplicates of the bio-monitors, GPS tracking data and other sundry information deemed necessary for a project of this grand a scale; pretty waveforms and lines of scrolling data designed to assure everyone that the field test was going as smoothly as they had planned. 

And Darien so very much wanted to believe they were correct, but in his heart of hearts, he knew the opposite was true. That Arnaud had been here all along -- denial up to the project's head to the contrary -- and if he hadn't made his move yet, he soon would. And all these millions of dollars would have been wasted. Practically handed over to a known terrorist on a silver-plated platter. The sticking point involved a decided lack of proof. Money trails and gut feelings just weren't enough for these people, and it had been decided by the Official that no mention of the Perseus Project fiasco would be allowed. Not that it could truly be construed as 'proof' even though the whole scenario matched frighteningly close.

No. They would have to use logic. Follow the trail that had surely been left behind to the man himself, disguised or not.

Darien looked forward to having a bit of a chat with the Swiss Miss Mother once he'd been backed into a secure corner. A chat involving fists and torture devices quickly created with anything conveniently on hand at that moment. Chairs, scalpels, pens, whatever. Just so some much deserved pain could be inflicted on the bastard who had killed his brother.

A tiny voice of reason whispered in his mind; Fallon's voice warning him that the path he had chosen could be a dark and dangerous one. One that could very well do far more harm to himself than to his target.

But he shook it off.

This was what he wanted. Revenge, served icy cold and on a platter and, come hell or high water, he would have it.

He gazed over the monitors, wondering which of the dozens of people visible was Arnaud in disguise. The only limiting factors were size: Arnaud could go no shorter nor skinnier. He probably had a preference for someone close to his body type, but beyond that the choices were limitless. Position was another factor. Whomever he portrayed would need to be able to access the information he needed to pull this caper off, be it directly or indirectly. So, finding Arnaud disguised as a janitor was highly unlikely. Still, it didn't narrow the field by much.

Something tickled the back of his mind, something on the screens, but he could not seem to bring it into focus. His eyes continued to rove over the moving pictures in hopes of figuring it out. Somehow, he knew it was important.

Hobbes', "And I'm telling you he coulda," dragged Darien's attention at least partly away from his search and back to the building argument on whether or not the project could have been infiltrated at all.

"Hobbes, dial it down," Alex ordered, albeit gently.

"No one has been in or out -- except you, of course -- since we began final prep four weeks ago. No one," Sims assured them for the umpteenth time.

Hobbes still wasn't buying it, and shook his head. "He's here, somewhere."

Sims threw up his hands in frustration. "Then tell me how?"

"Right through your frickin' front door, how else?" Hobbes snarked, clearly tired of beating the three-days-dead horse this conversation had turned into.

"Who was last on leave rotation before the prep?" Alex asked, plainly hoping to get somewhere this time.

Sims consulted his computer. "Zigari. No, wait... Covington."

"Covington?" Hobbes repeated.

"Thomas Covington. Took emergency leave when his sister was in a car accident. He was gone ten days," Sims read from his notes. "Came back just in time for the final programming changes."

All three Agency members slipped behind Sims to get a look at the geek in question. He was unremarkable in appearance. Dark hair, dark eyes, roughly Arnaud's build, not that it mattered. Darien committed the face to memory and began searching the screens for him.

"He's lead programmer?" Alex queried, tone carefully neutral.

"Yes. Quite good too."

"Any behavioral changes since he returned?" Hobbes tossed out, making sure to lead Sims in the direction he needed to go.

Sims looked over the file before him for a few seconds before answering. "Not really... Uh, he had a bad thumb scan due to a minor injury sustained while on leave, but..."

"Bingo," Hobbes crowed. "That's our guy."

Sims laughed. "And you are basing this on one bad thumb scan?"

Hobbes nodded. "You betcha."

"_You_ may be satisfied, but I am not. I'll need more than that to risk endangering this project," that came from Director Seiber herself. She'd been content to sit on the sidelines until now.

"Your precious project is already in danger," Alex snapped. "And every second we waste here is one closer to him making his move."

"And I need more." Sims didn't seem to be doing the stubborn thing on purpose. His words implying that if they gave him the right motivation he'd move like lightning to set things right.

"You said Covington does programming, right? For what?" Darien had an inkling of an idea, but blurting it out wouldn't work. No, he'd have to leave a trail of breadcrumbs and allow them to find where it led before they'd believe.

Seiber responded. "He oversees everything. Suit control, GPS uplinks, bio-monitors, you name it."

"So he has access to the mainframe," Hobbes added and got a nod. "Including security?"

"Yes, but that's under my purview. Covington wouldn't need to access those systems." Worry had crept into Sims' words, almost as if they were now pushing the right buttons... finally.

"But he could if he wanted," Alex stressed, shoving the point home.

"I suppose, but..."

Darien cut him off. "Any bugs or glitches since his last leave?"

"Of course. I told you he did the final upload after he returned. There's always bugs after a major upgrade," Sims explained, exasperated.

"Lemme guess: you had to shut down and reboot before the system came online correctly." Darien stated, dread curling tightly in his belly. He'd learned more than a few tricks from both Fallon and Eberts in the last few months.

"Yes, how did you know?" Sims actually looked surprised.

"He planted a virus with the new programming," Darien stated flatly, absently noting the utter astonishment on Hobbes' face. "One command and it'll activate. If it hasn't already."

"Call your team," Alex told him, almost -- but not quite -- making it an order.

Sims looked to Seiber, who nodded. "Do it."

"Call the team and check the code. If there's a backdoor I want it found and locked _**now**_," Sims barked at the others in the room, who immediately moved to obey. "And locate Covington," he glanced at Hobbes and shrugged, "just in case."

Several minutes of increasingly tense silence went by.

"Sir, the team is not responding."

"Damn it," Seiber hissed. "Covington?"

"We... we can't locate him," came the subdued response.

"Funny, since he's sitting right there in the control room." Hobbes tapped the monitor that showed the dark-haired countenance of Covington on it.

As one Darien and Hobbes said, "Time loop."

"You're too late. The program is running," Alex said in obvious dismay. "Fair bet these readings are nothing more than fluff and your team is dead."

"Shit," Seiber swore. "I hope to god you're wrong."

"Us too," Hobbes assured her.

Darien stared at the monitors. Now that he knew what he was looking for it was shamefully easy to spot. "Loop. Loop. Loop." He pointed to each of the screens as he spoke.

"Where does that route lead?" Alex asked, head snapping about to focus on Sims.

"Garage," he replied.

"You go," Hobbes said to her. "I'll hit the helipad just in case it's a ruse."

Sims nodded. "I'll have Marines meet you on the way."

The pair bolted from the room, while Darien kept an eye on the monitors. He could track them, and keep and watch for Arnaud just in case the douchebag had missed a camera or two. Darien watched Marines appear and then split up heading for the two different locations. One group vanished from the screen only to appear two hallways over.

"Where's this?" Darien requested, wondering why a camera on some random hallway was looped.

"C-14. It's just a hallway between the control room and the labs," Sims answered after a moment.

Darien tapped the odd-shaped door dead center of the screen and clearly the focal point of the camera. "What's that?"

Seiber glanced his way, but then returned to giving orders via the headset she now wore, leaving Sims to play tour guide. "Emergency access hatch."

"A back door?"

Sims noticeably paled even in the dim light of the room. "Yes. It opens out at the top of the mountain."

Darien sighed. "Let me guess, no cameras inside?"

Sims shook his head. "It's a left over from when this installation was military. A ladder in a three-foot wide cement tube. A five story climb from that level," he explained, fingers flying over his keyboard as he pulled up schematics of the complex.

A climb Darien knew Arnaud would make if it would fulfill his escape plan with little fuss or muss. "And up top?"

"Just an ancient logging road." Sims shook his head again. "You don't really think..."

No, Darien didn't think, he _knew_.

"Any short cuts to the top?"


	7. Chapter 6

The "short cut" involved nothing more than taking the elevator to the topmost level and using one of the other escape hatches to get the to surface, hopefully ahead of Arnaud. Darien had no way of knowing when the plan had gone into effect and the Swiss Mother had made good on his escape. Still, the ground seemed to be undisturbed and the four-wheel-drive Jeep he discovered wore a coating of snow over the winter-camo cover; a fair sign that it still awaited its owner's arrival.

Darien snapped off a pine bough and used it to wipe away any trace of his existence then took up position behind a tree with a mostly unobstructed view of the area. The possibility of Arnaud walking up on Darien unawares was slim. This time he would leave nothing to chance. There'd be no bargains, no compromises, no deals this time. No way. No how. He would get a little back for all the pain and heartache Arnaud had caused him.

And it would feel _so damn good_.

The only remaining question became should Darien kill the son of a bitch outright or _hurt_ him first. A little torture, a little suffering to give the slimeball a taste of all that Darien had endured physically and emotionally at his hands.

_Yeah, that sounded like plan._ Some serious pain before ending it for good. Kevin revenged at long last.

Fallon's words, her warning rang through his head one more time: _"I've seen, first 'and what vengeance can do to a person, to a __**good**__ person, and the price is incredibly 'igh. Ye best be sure ye be willing to pay it."_

And the answer today was the same as it had been then... _Whatever it takes._ He liked Fallon, respected her, her skills, but in this, she had no understanding, no comprehension of the manipulations he'd dealt with thanks to Arnaud. He'd lost not only his brother, but his entire life. His choices limited by what he'd been made into, forced to become something he never wanted to be.

Killing Arnaud wouldn't fix any of that, Darien understood that much, but this wasn't about fixing things. This was about some visceral need to right a wrong. Old Testament style. An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. A life for a life. Only after all this time, the life was just as much Darien's as his brother's.

Darien sucked in a deep breath and released it, the coating of Quicksilver he wore keeping it from creating a fog upon the air and potentially giving away his location. A good thing, since a jaunty whistle caught his attention just then and from around the large boulder that hid the access hatch he expected company from came Arnaud, his body outlined in a purple-black aura, instead of streamers of silver.

The little shit had Quicksilver. Darien couldn't believe Arnie-dear would be stupid enough to have another gland implanted given the troubles he'd had with the last one, which meant an external source akin to the backpack built by Mai-Lin. Though if he already had the ability to go invisible it begged the question of his interest in the Chameleon Project.

Not that it mattered, seeing as Darien planned to stop him here and now.

The Quicksilver shattered and fell away from Arnaud, who continued unconcerned towards his vehicle, the mask he'd worn to portray Covington gone, revealing his true countenance; a smile of total satisfaction on his face. Clearly, he was confident his plan had gone off without a hitch.

Well now, if Darien didn't have a surprise for the smug bastard.

Darien stepped out from behind his tree. "Arnie, you never call, never write."

Arnaud froze mid-step. "Fawkes?"

Darien let the Quicksilver flake away. "C'mon now, who else would it be?" he said, crossing his arms over his chest.

Arnaud didn't bat so much as an eye. "And what brings you here?" he asked, arms spreading wide to encompass the entire snow-covered mountain.

Darien shrugged and began to pace slowly towards the man. "Well, once Huiclov went AWOL, it wasn't too hard to track you down." He paused a few feet away from his nemesis, just out of easy reach. "You left quite the paper trail."

Arnaud shook his head. "I meant _here_. I'm in the middle of... a project. I'll need at least a week..." He trailed off at the lack of reaction he received. "You're here about Chameleon, aren't you?"

"Duh," Darien replied. "Why else would I be standing on the top of a mountain in the dead of winter?"

Arnaud laughed. "Oh, I can think of a few reasons."

Darien knew his confusion showed on his face, but he couldn't help that. "We're here to stop you..."

Arnaud laughed all the harder for a few seconds then the mirth cut off abruptly. "You and your little Agency are much too late on that score. Chameleon is mine and there is nothing you can do about it."

Darien smiled, teeth bared in a dangerous snarl. "Wanna bet?" He lunged forward, taking Arnaud by surprise and knocking him to the ground.

They struggled, kicking up great gouts of snow until they came to a rest with Darien on top. Both panted harshly, their breath pluming out in the cold air.

Darien got in a solid punch to Arnie's jaw, dazing him. "I am _so_ gonna enjoy this," he growled, a perverse glee settling over him like a shroud as he shifted his weight in preparation for another punch.

Arnaud coughed, his teeth bloody, and snapped, "Fool, I have what you want."

That gave Darien pause, and one hand tightened about the collar of Arnaud's jacket and lifted him up slightly. "All I want from you is screams of pain."

Arnaud raised an eyebrow. "Are you certain of that?"

Baffled, Darien could only ask, "What are you talking about?"

"Nothing perhaps." Arnaud tried to shift, setting his forearms on the snow-covered ground for leverage, but Darien would have none of it and slammed the man back down.

"Nothing, is right," Darien sneered and swung another punch at Arnaud's face, solidly striking his right cheek bone with a soul-satisfying _crack_. Oh, this was going to be much more fun that he imagined.

This time when Darien raised his fist for another strike, Arnaud struggled, perhaps realizing for the first time he was in serious danger, his hands coming up to wrap about Darien's wrist to prevent the blow from landing.

It turned into an outright brawl, complete with squirming, punching, kicking and biting -- though none vicious enough to break the skin through the layers of clothes. Darien outweighed Arnaud and had far more determination to win, and would have had it not been for the fair-sized piece of nature Arnaud managed to find buried in the snow.

All Darien knew was the sudden appearance of stars and a decided disinterest in continuing the wrestling match.

His eyes swung into bleary focus to find Arnaud standing over him, foot planted firmly on Darien's chest and hand wrapped about his right wrist.

"Wha...?" he struggled to say, head still ringing like a church bell after noon.

Arnaud smiled grimly, eye already swelling shut. "Don't check your pet too often these days, now do you?" He twisted Darien's arm about, shoved the sleeve down to mid-forearm to reveal the serpent coiled quiescently there.

Darien stared at it. "Huh? Why would I..."

Arnaud tapped his wrist, just above the tail.

The _red_ tail.

Darien blinked.

It _couldn't_ be.

The tail couldn't... shouldn't be red.

Darien jerked his hand from Arnaud to examine the tattoo up close, even going so far as to rub it with his thumb in a vain effort to remove the color.

But it remained unchanged.

The tail was still red.

"How?" Darien asked, head lifting to look at Arnaud who looked particularly smug.

"Genius, pure genius, Fawkes. Though I must admit it took a bit longer than I expected." Arnaud glanced up at the sky, as if attempting to gauge the time by the position of the sun, then at his watch. "Well, this has been fun, but I have somewhere to be." He moved away towards the Jeep. "Have your girlfriend call me when you're ready to talk." He chuckled softly, then turned his back on Darien without a care in the world.

Darien, realizing he was about to lose his prey, shouted, "No," and surged to his feet... only to have his vision tunnel within three steps, gray fuzz stealing his sight and white noise overpowering the sound of an engine rumbling to life.

He stopped, head throbbing, but too late, as the world shifted suddenly and went dark, leaving him sprawled bonelessly in the snow.

That's where Alex and Bobby found him ten minutes later.

* * *

They got Fawkes to the medic down on level one and left him there while a contingent of Marines with Bobby tagging along tried to catch up with Arnaud. A useless task; he was long gone; the trail left by his Jeep meeting up with dry asphalt and leaving them with no idea where he'd gone. After a couple hours of fruitless searching, they found the vehicle abandoned at a truck stop. Questioning of employees got them nothing and the security feed told them even less. Yes, it showed him parking, but less than five minutes later he'd been picked up by a nondescript dark colored SUV. The plates so blurred that even the state couldn't be made out.

Arnaud had gotten away.

Alex had gone with the Marines looking for the Chameleon test team. GPS placed them in a lightly forested area at the bottom of a valley, but they found nothing and had been forced to widen the search area, even putting men on the ground to look for signs of the team's passage on foot. Hours and hours passed with no success and less and less hope the team of four would be found alive.

And that was before the computer system failed. Ate itself would be a better description. Apparently, the virus uploaded by Arnaud had a self-destruct that kicked in two hours after the escape had been made. The computer geeks did everything they could, but had been unable to save anything, the entire system burned out and useless.

A blessing in disguise it turned out, in some small way. With the main system completely offline, they switched to the back-up which had never had the newest changes uploaded onto it. Even better, it had been running through the entire test and provided a different set of final coordinates for the location of the team. A location miles away from where they were supposed to be. It would have taken the search team days to reach the spot by foot and with the thick cover; they would never have been spotted by air.

All four were dead, their bodies stripped of the suits and left where they had fallen, like dolls discarded by a tempestuous child bored with his toys. With utmost care, Alex and the Marines covered their bodies and brought them home. Efforts at tracking the GPS still imbedded in the suits yielded nothing. They had apparently been deactivated.

Arnaud had gotten away with the suits, and probably all the key information on them. God only knew what the madman would do with them. This time however, the project wasn't dead. All the data was backed up and everything could be rebuilt. The Chameleon Project would continue. Shit, it would have to if only to stop everyone who ended up with the tech.

Twelve hours passed before they rejoined Fawkes, who, thanks to the blow to the head had the headache from hell, but no concussion. Hobbes assumed that the moping had to do with not grabbing Arnaud more than anything else. That was until Hobbes saw the very real fear in the young man's eyes.

It was then Fawkes gave them the _really_ bad news and showed them the tattoo.

* * *

Darien sat sideways on the exam chair, hands dangling loosely between his thighs, shoulders drooping, and head tipped down, waiting.

He'd done little else but wait the last few days while Claire ran one test after another to ascertain exactly what had occurred. Those anomalous results hadn't been. No, they'd been a warning. One that she had very nearly dismissed as impossible. But where Darien Fawkes was concerned, nothing, it seemed, was _impossible_. She had answers now; answers that were mind bogglingly confusing. She only wished they were more positive.

She thumbed through the file, all the dry facts, suppositions, the best guesses, and ultimately the reality that her Kept would face, and then set it aside. On this occasion, she needed to be Claire and not The Keeper. Compassion and not enigmatic authoritarianism would stand a far better chance of forestalling the deep depression she knew would follow her words.

She went to him, setting a hand on his knee and waited for him to lift his head and meet her gaze.

"Keep, you can drop the sympathy act. Just tell me what's going on." He didn't even bother glancing at her, clearly anticipating the worst yet to come.

She didn't take his accusation to heart, knowing he had awaited that sword hanging he saw her as holding over his head to fall for quite some time now.

_Where to start..._ "I have the results of the blood tests and the biopsy of the gland tissue," she paused, feeling the muscles of his leg tense beneath her palm. "The madness toxin is definitely in your system, in high enough quantity to register on the monitor, but the gland is _not_ the source."

Darien's head snapped up, confusion crawling across his features. "Not from the gland? But where else could it be coming from?"

A good question and one for which she wished she had an answer. "I'm not sure."

A sneer made its first appearance. "You're not sure. That's just great."

"Darien... I do have a theory, if you would like to hear it." She took a step back, not interested in being the target of his anger no matter how justified he thought it might be.

"What the hell. Not like I have any plans." The sullen attitude wasn't likely to improve so she forged ahead.

"The gland is completely free of the gene sequence that created the madness. The suicide therapy _did_ work, however, I think it was also booby-trapped."

"Didn't you check before you gave it to me?"

"Of course I did, but this… if it is what happened, then it was either a random accident -- an unexpected side-effect, if you will -- or cunningly hidden. I will need to do more research to ascertain which." Claire gave him a moment to digest that bit of information.

"Oh, it wasn't an accident," he finally said. "Arnie said he'd been expecting me and was surprised it had taken so long." He flung himself around against the seat back. "Shit. He planned this from the start."

Claire sighed. She would have to take apart that 'cure' piece by piece to figure out precisely how this had been done.

"So what happened?" Darien prompted.

"I believe the cure also functioned similar to a virus. Killing the genes in the gland, but also releasing them into your system. One appears to have found a new home," she explained in the simplest terms she could manage.

"Like a seed or something?"

"An apt analogy, actually. The seedling produced is generating the toxin."

"Where?"

Claire shook her head. "That I do not know. It could be anywhere, lymph node, sweat glands, functioning with an existing metabolic system much as it did with the Quicksilver gland, or it could be in muscle tissue, mimicking the behavior of a tumor." Claire didn't want to frighten him, but he needed to know the truth in order to be able to make rational decisions in the coming weeks and months.

"Can't you just give me the cure again?"

_Damn, he wasted no time, did he? _

"Yes, I could, however we risk the same trap occurring again. A year from now we'd be right back here with nothing really resolved."

He nodded, giving the distinct impression that he'd expected that particular answer. "Can you fix it? The cure, I mean."

"Yes, but it will take time." The bare truth.

He sat there silent for several long minutes, thinking or perhaps the opposite, avoiding the situation for a few precious moments more. Finally, he said, "Okay. What do we do now?"

Claire couldn't believe he'd taken it so well. She had expected bitching and moaning and a classic Darien 'woe is me' tirade. Clearly, he had become far more depressed than she'd realized.

"I want to take 'yet another blood sample'," she encapsulated the words in air quotes, knowing the irony he'd ascribe them, "from which I will extract the toxin." She retrieved the rubber tourniquet from the nearby mayo cart and wrapped it snugly about his biceps. Moments later she had two large vials of blood marked and stored away. Only then did she continue her explanation, "I'm going to duplicate the toxin, and after making a batch of counteragent, run a series of tests on rats."

"Why?" Darien asked, checking under the cotton ball to see if he'd stopped bleeding yet.

"I want to make certain the counteragent still works to flush the toxin," she told him, though all preliminary tests had assured her it would.

"Why does it matter? I'm immune to the counteragent, remember?" There was so little hope in his voice that Claire wanted to cry.

"You were _becoming_ immune a year ago. Your resistance should be zero by now."

His head came up, emotions warring with one another on his face for long seconds until settling on the one she least expected.

_Amazing how just the tiniest bit of good news lifted the spirits._ She could only hope yet more would be of greater benefit to his shaky state of mind.

"Once I've confirmed the counteragent works -- which I fully expect -- I will give you a dose."

He sighed heavily. "Weekly shots, here I come," he grumbled. Even at that she could hear the profound relief in his words.

Claire wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. Yes, things were bad, but not nearly as awful as he seemed to believe. She took his right hand into both of hers, rotating it so that the snake lying coiled on his inner wrist was clearly visible.

"How many segments are red?" she asked. Once upon a time, three days would have meant as many as six segments turned crimson with no use of the gland.

"One," he muttered.

"Exactly. One segment is red and you discovered it three days ago." She could feel the way his entire body suddenly stilled, like his entire being had paused, waiting for something of great importance to happen.

"I... Crap. I didn't even realize..." His fingers curled about her hand and a pleading tone stole into his voice. "How long?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. Which is why, once I've given you the counteragent, we are going to keep careful track of when each segment turns red."

"So it might be one a month or something?" Hope, tiny and barely flickering, but there, appeared in his eyes.

"Perhaps, though I suspect the rate will increase over time." He looked confused. "As the _seedling_ grows it will produce more and more toxin. Which is why we need to keep track."

"Okay. I can do that. What else might be different?" he asked and she could only be thankful he had decided, however reluctantly, to rejoin humanity and deal with the problem directly. Hiding would get him... them nowhere.

"The madness itself."

"Huh?"

She smiled. "Remember, the Quicksilver bacteria?"

He nodded.

"It's possible you may react more like I or the Official did. No headaches, no seizures..."

"But I thought you guys reacted different 'cause you didn't have glands. I still do y'know."

"I am aware," she replied sardonically. "The toxin used to be produced by the gland, causing it to react to an overdose violently. Now... well, now it may not. Or only in later stages. I need to run some tests."

"What about Stage Five?" he asked in a hushed, fearful tone.

"Again I need to run some tests, but I doubt it can recur. The toxin was tied to the Quicksilver, affecting its absorption..." she trailed off as his face went blank. Now wasn't the time for long-winded techno-babble, even the easy to understand layman version. He simply wanted to know everything would be all right.

"There is some good news," Claire said softly.

Darien's eyebrows rose, asking the question he did not wish to voice aloud.

"Because the toxin is being produced outside the gland it will have no effect on how long you Quicksilver," she explained, and waited for the light to dawn in his eyes.

It did, but slowly; deep clouds and drowning rain obscuring the illuminating white light.

"Ain't that just perfect," he finally groused, clearly unhappy with this revelation.

"Darien, I thought you would be pleased."

"You mean the 'Fish'll be pleased, don't you?" he countered, anger coloring the words.

"Why do you say that?" she asked, at a total loss.

"And you're the smart one." He shook his head ruefully. "Unlimited invisibility _and_ a very tight leash. How more perfect could it be?"

Claire contained the gasp of realization by the barest of margins. She hadn't considered that, had been so focused on finding out what had happened that she'd forgotten about after. Darien had hit it dead on. The Official was going to be as satisfied as a cat full of cream-topped canary.

He sighed heavily and slipped from the exam chair. "Guess this explains those dreams, huh?"

"I suppose it does," she agreed, no longer able to deny the premonitions he sometimes seemed to have about future events. "Darien, I will fix this." She knew she would. She wouldn't fail him again.

"Promise me that."

That, however she would not do, and the desperation in his voice nearly broke her heart. "I can't."

His shoulders slumped, head hanging so low that all she could see was hair and a hint of cheekbone. "Lie to me, then."

She shook her head. She refused to give him false hope. The road before them would not be easy, but he could endure it. She was utterly certain of that. "We'll get through this, Darien."

His head came up and he snorted in derision. "When you have the threat of Quicksilver Madness hanging over your pretty little head, then and only then will _we_ get through this." He walked away, around the glass screen and into the other half of the lab. "We done?"

No, they weren't, but he obviously had all he needed for now and wanted only to get away. "For now."

He nodded slightly and made the effort to smile, to assure her that he held no ill will towards her. He shouldn't have bothered. The slight upturning of his lips failed to be anything but a parody of the real act. His eyes were haunted, certain that there would be no saving of the day this time. His life sentence had returned upon him once again. She wished she could say something... anything to convince him otherwise.

The door slid open before he triggered it, admitting Bobby. "Hey, partner."

Darien managed a mumbled "Hey," in return, but didn't even pause his exit, the door shutting behind him a moment later.

"That bad?" Bobby asked.

"Bad enough," she confirmed. "I know we have plans, but would you mind keeping an eye on him? He's got me worried."

Bobby kissed her on the cheek. "Not a problem, Keep. I'll make sure he doesn't do anything too stupid."

"Thank you, Bobby." She moved to the table and picked up the file. "Now I get to tell the Official." She frowned. "I hope he doesn't gloat too much."

" 'Course he will. Being a bastard is part of his job description," Bobby assured her with false cheer. "Fawkes'll be all right. He has us, remember?"

"That he does, Bobby." She hugged the files to her chest. "I'll call you later."

"And that is my cue to exit." Her gave her a quick kiss and backed towards the door, holding it open so she could leave as well.

He strode away from her through the double-doors at the end of the hall while she headed for the stairwell, dreading this meeting with the Official.


	8. tag

Fawkes sat slumped in the driver's seat of the Agency owned piece-of-shit-LTD, cell phone to his ear and free hand raking through his hair. Bobby could only wonder who his partner was chit-chatting with. Fawkes shoulda been talking with Bobby Hobbes, bitching and moaning about the unfairness of it all. But Bobby's phone remained stubbornly silent, while Fawkes chattered away at whoever was at the other end of the microwave relay signal he was abusing.

Watching moodily from the shadows of the van, Bobby had considered pulling out the parabolic mike, but had stopped short. Today he couldn't bring himself to regress to those early days when Fawkes needed a babysitter along with a Keeper. He had changed dramatically over the years and could make his own decision -- for good or ill -- without the interference of Bobby Hobbes.

He understood why Claire wanted him to... watch Fawkes -- her very real concern had come through loud and clear -- but that was all he'd do. Unless Fawkes looked to be doing something _permanently_ stupid, that is.

Fawkes snapped the phone shut and dropped it on the passenger seat from the look of things, then just... sat there, an inconsolable look upon his face. The kid clearly believing the worst was yet to come. The hell of it was that Bobby couldn't disagree. Nothing good could come out of this regression back to Quicksilver Madness. After five minutes, Fawkes straightened and started the car, pulling out of the tiny parking lot and onto G Avenue. Bobby followed a few moments later. He stayed several cars behind, but still felt exposed and vulnerable; the van sticking out like a sore thumb in the midst of the mid-town traffic.

Fawkes either didn't notice or didn't care, though Bobby figured on the former given the kid's current state of mind. Bobby trailed along, weaving in and out of the early evening traffic. When Fawkes missed the turn that would take him to his apartment, Bobby got a sinking feeling in his gut. A few minutes later, his fears were confirmed -- they were heading towards Old Town and it was a fair bet Fawkes had no plans to hang out with the tourists.

A series of rights and lefts that at any other time would have convinced Bobby he'd been spotted, ended at a small, gated parking lot that Fawkes apparently had the magic key to, since the gate slid aside as soon as he turned into the short drive. Bobby drove by, made a loop, and by some miracle managed to snag a parking space almost directly across from the lot. He sat there in confusion for a couple of minutes, staring at the place -- the gate was unmarked as to ownership -- until the building behind it swung into focus. Then his stomach dropped to his feet.

Fawkes had indeed gone to _the fourth monkey_ and apparently had a key.

_Shit. Shit. Shit. _Bobby rubbed the top of his head with a hand. _What the hell did he think he was doin'?_

"Oh, Fawkes..." The total dismay in his voice did not come close to conveying how he really felt about this boneheaded move by his friend. Running to a woman, Bobby could understand, but to _her_? To O'Neill, who would surely take advantage Darien in his current tenuous emotional state.

Seeing movement in a second floor window, Bobby leaned over, popped open the glove box and pulled out his back-up binoculars. Quick as he could he focused on the window in question. Two people swung into view: Fawkes and O'Neill. They were talking, but the angle was crappy and Bobby couldn't make out what they were saying.

Fawkes didn't crack a smile and the gentle hand she placed on his arm spoke volumes to Bobby, making it clear that a relationship of some kind existed between the two of them.

And... and Bobby knew it was none of his business.

He lowered the glasses, but continued to moodily watch the couple. Fawkes was a big boy and could take care of himself. And while Bobby didn't personally didn't trust O'Neill , Fawkes did, and that had to count for something. His partner needed to talk to someone, someone outside the Agency, and for whatever reason, had chosen O'Neill for that purpose. Bobby could only hope Fawkes wouldn't end up regretting that choice.

Bobby sighed and started the van. There was little point in hanging about here all night. If his partner needed him, he'd call. And if he hurried, he could probably catch the end of Claire's report, or get a recap in person. It'd be good to know what he would be dealing with, this time.

* * *

Fallon came out of her office as Darien entered her apartment. Barefoot and dressed in only jeans and a t-shirt, he breathed a tiny sigh of relief. Her 'not busy' response hadn't been solely for his benefit. Box had said she'd been fiddling with the code for the new scrambler, which Darien had been reluctant to interrupt, assurances by all aside.

She came out with a smile that faded swiftly when he utterly failed to return it.

"Oi, 'unting went badly, I take it?"

Darien shrugged. "No more so that usual." He wandered towards the window, the mobile hanging there shifting, and chiming softly in the breeze drifting through. "You gonna keep an eye on him?"

Fallon nodded. "Just let me know if ye want anything in particular."

He nodded in acknowledgement of her words, not really caring at the moment. Arnaud had gotten the last laugh this time, and it made him despair of ever getting what he really wanted.

Her hand on his arm made an impact on his awareness. Her touch; a simple gesture that cost her little or nothing, caused tightly locked in emotions to boil to the surface. He didn't gasp, didn't whimper, didn't piteously moan, though he felt like an animal wounded, in pain beyond endurance.

"I... we need to talk," he finally managed to get past the apparently permanent lump that had developed in his throat, very nearly choking off his words before they could form.

"All right. 'Ave a seat." She urged him towards the couch and he moved, slowly, but eventually sank into the cushions, leaving her standing before him. "Want a drink? 'Ate to say it, but ye look like ye could use a more'n a few shorts in ye."

He chuckled half-heartedly. "Maybe later." He grabbed her hand and tugged her down. "Sit, please."

She lowered herself onto the glass-topped coffee table. The piece looked too delicate to support its own weight, much less hers, but it did so with nary a creak or groan.

"Sounds serious."

"It is," he told her in all honesty. "Something's happened. It... It has to do with the Quicksilver and..."

She raised a hand, cutting him off. " 'Old up. I've the feeling that whatever ye be about to say falls outside my deal with the Official."

_Shit. _ He'd forgotten all about that damn deal. "What, exactly, did you agree to?" he asked, wondering how far across that particular line in the sand he was about to step.

"Not to tell what I know." She cocked her head, eyeing him speculatively with those wicked green eyes of hers. "All I know is that you can go invisible, thanks to a substance called Quicksilver, which you secrete from your pores."

He felt almost disappointed. "That's it?"

"That's all I _know_." I've plenty of speculation on the how, but..." She shrugged, not wanting to spill her guesses at the moment.

_Damn it_. What he needed to tell her went far, _far_ beyond that, and because it fell outside her deal with the Official, which she would stick to, to the letter, she could -- and would, _lets not kid ourselves here_ -- sell it to the highest bidder. Without batting an eye.

Crap. He needed desperately for her sake as much as his own to talk to her, to warn her that the rules had changed and he had once again become a serious threat to himself and all those around him. He had to give her an out, a lifeline, a chance to get away from him and the Agency now while the opportunity to escape relatively unscathed remained.

Shit. He thought he'd moved past all of this, had finished living with his life hanging by a thin and quickly fraying thread; waiting for the string to finally fail and let him drop to be crushed at the end of the long fall.

If anyone deserved this, it was Arnaud, but Darien got to suffer the folly of those who tried to play god. And Arnaud still waited, expecting Darien to come to him in order to achieve some measure of salvation. Only _he_, the rat bastard, had the means to defuse this time-bomb ticking away in his body, and for the first time Darien seriously considered it. Claire, brilliant as she was, could promise nothing, leaving Darien with nowhere to turn.

Not even Fallon would help. Oh no, she would just use him until wrung of all value and then sell what she had learned. Making money from every possible angle. He'd been a fool to forget that. Forgotten that the proprietor of _the fourth monkey_ always took precedence over the woman. Those drops of kindness, of human emotion he stumbled upon were surely false, a façade to lure in the unwary and trap them. Like a pitcher plant, attracting their victims with slippery slopes and a sweet scent, then drowning them to leisurely feast upon their carcasses.

Why? Why had he bothered coming here? She cared nothing for Darien Fawkes the man. He was nothing to her.

He balled his hands into fists. "Forget it," he growled in a low voice; hurt, and pain, and anger all mixed together in the three syllables.

"Nay," she said softly. "I won't 'forget it'." She reached out and brushed that wayward lock of hair off his forehead.

"I can't, Fallon, what I need to say..."

She set a finger on his lips, silencing his words. "Will never leave this room. I swear it."

He looked her squarely in the eyes, searching for any hint of deceit and found none. Instead, there was concern, which surprised him, for it felt so... personal. There were too many layers to the woman, and she continued to surprise him at every turn. So often she came across as cold or distant, but then there were moments like this one when she focused all of her attention, all of her being on one thing, and the effect was utterly devastating. For this moment, this second, Darien Fawkes had become the whole of her world.

Sad that he knew he was about to destroy it.

He took her hands into his own, needing -- no, _craving_, the contact. How simple a thing touch; how so very mundane, and yet so very lacking in his life. _This_ was what he'd lost, more than anything else, since becoming the seventeen million dollar man. To be able to touch, to feel, to just be with another person without fear or lies or risks of certain doom. He'd lost the ability to live, had it ripped away from him when surrounded by dank cell walls and he'd said 'yes' to his seeming savior. His Judas, more like; betraying and abandoning him in swift succession.

He looked Fallon in the eyes and part of him feared she would do the same. Save him now only to betray him later. It was the nature of the beast.

"Fallon..."

" 'Ere now, 'ow'd ye manage this?" She had his right hand, palm turned up, a finger resting atop the snake's red tail. "I've seen tat's recolored afore, ne'er so well."

"It's not recolored," Darien stated. "It's part of what I need to talk to you about."

She nodded, still running her fingertips over the monitor.

"C'mere." He tugged her and got her settled beside him, wanting to feel her warmth while he still could.

All that had happened flashed through his mind: Kevin dead. Arnaud smugly holding a syringe full of counteragent that smelled oh, so very sweet. Darien's fingers wrapped snugly about Bobby's throat. Claire telling him he'd become immune. All those, plus a million other memories, all jumbled together and wanting to be spoken of first.

Fallon poked him in the chest. "Ye be all right?"

"I don't know." He slouched into the seat. "I've no idea where to start."

She gave him a wry grin. "Try the beginning. Works best for most stories."

He chuckled. Leave it to her to point out the obvious. "Yeah, s'pose it does." Darien sucked in a breath and blew it out slowly. This was going to be a while in the telling.

"There once was a tale about a man who could turn invisible..."

_finis_


End file.
